Clothing in on Cuddle Buddies
by The Wise Duck
Summary: At the end of the school year, Kim finds what may be the perfect mission on her computer. But others may not think its the perfect mission which causes problems with the new relationship she has with Ron. Takes place during Chp 2 of 'What She Can't Say'
1. Finals Week Revisited

Kim Possible and all the characters contained within are the sole property of Disney.

The situations and contents of this story are mine and are intended solely as recreational and for the enjoyment of myself and other fans.

This story takes place between Chapters Two and Three of 'What She Can't Say'.

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Chapter One – Finals Week - Revisited

From 'What She Can't Say' Chapter 2 'Finals Week'

Kim stood in the center of a small group of various committee members, giving last minute advice, direction, or instructions for whatever they had planned over the summer break. One by one, those same various members, having received what they sought, thanked her, and broke off from the group.

It was normally no big for her. But she found that her cheeks were starting to get just a _little_ bit red when _all_ of them made some kind of comment to her as they left about her enjoying her summer with her new Beau.

When they were at last all gone, she took a deep breath, clutching her horde of books tightly to her chest. The last three weeks had been more than intense with studying, her having to fill in for Bonnie in the committees and teams they were both involved in (the ones that Bonnie actually deemed were important enough to put work into that is), her normal load of various minor and medium 'somebody needs help/I can do anything' hits on the website and dealing with the continuing ramifications that were coming down from Drakken's scheme.

Billions in dollars of damage had been done worldwide. Governments wanted heads. Her Dad had been called before a Congressional Committee to discuss his Cybertronic discovery and all the implications about it. She and Ron had been the center of a constant demand for interviews and appearances of news shows and the like.

And they still had to be dealing with FINALS!

But this was it. Today was the last day of those. She was done! Now all she was waiting for was for Ron to finish his last test. They had a short week next week to close out their classes then they were off for the summer!

She blew a breath upwards that flipped her bangs away from her forehead. Hopefully now the craziness would lessen and she and her 'Beau' would have more time than what they had spent with her tutoring him in math.

She started to slink tiredly toward her locker. Thinking back, the sum, and total of their 'close' time together recently had been 'sleeping together' on a couple of quick plane trips. But even that had been nice. _Him leaning the seat back, letting me put my head in his lap, his arm around my chest to where my hands where holding his in front of me. Very nice._

And there was most definitely something else. In all the years she's known him, she had seen a whole host of 'New Ron's'. But the one that had come out in the last several weeks, it almost left her breathless.

Outwardly he hadn't changed. He was still the biggest goof, the happy, devil may care guy that she had always known. And his manner and personality hadn't changed either.

Except—

She had seen him, on those missions where it really counted, when the chips were down, when he knew that he had to make a decision and stick to it, when someone was counting on him and it was time to play, when he was the last man standing and the bet was called, how he was perfectly capable of showing a maturity, a drive, a dedication, a willingness to lay it on the line that more than once had saved the mission—

Or her life.

And that trait was starting to show now in all his work. Outwardly, the lazy, lackadaisical, it can get done tomorrow Ron was still there in word and tone. But when it actually came time to _do_ the work, he was there before he was suppose to be, he was interested and he was _trying_ even if he was still hopelessly lost.

Even more so, he had been talking to Wade, trying to figure out _why_ he had such a hard time with the gadgets, why was he always loosing his pants, what could he do to avoid the same repetitious mistakes that he was constantly making.

None of it was working so far but at least he was _trying_.

And there was something else different about him that she hadn't exactly put her finger on yet. But considering how little they had seen each other outside of times of total crisis (be it study, tests, commitments or mission) mode, there hadn't been exactly a lot of time to just sit and talk.

She finally reached her locker, opened it, and heaved her books into it. She couldn't wait to turn them all in next week but that of course also meant that it would be time to pull the computer out so that Wade to have it picked up for its annual upgrades and maintenance.

She ran a quick check on the website to see if there was any activity—

"Hmmmm," she mused. "Baby sitting quintuplets in Tibet, well, they're not going to be pampered. Lost Llama in Lima, nothing to spit at. Missing octopus from Australian aquarium, I think after that fight I had with that one belonging to Senor Senior Sr, I'll keep that one at arms length."

She scanned a few more hits then she stopped and blinked. She reread the line twice, and a grin that just barely bordered on evil, slowly crossed her face.

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Kim's head was still slightly spinning as she sat beside Ron in the Bueno Nacho booth. The fact that they were actually sitting together instead of on opposite sides was unique enough, but the fact that she was still mainly trying to cope/grip the couple across from them—

Monique had sat down first, turning to help guide Felix, her new boyfriend, into the spot next to her. The brown haired boy was lifted by his chairs 'seat' which then extended sideways (that side of his 'wheel' chair retracting and getting out of the way for him in a complex manner that made Kim's eyes hurt to watch), sliding Felix in at the perfect height to be deposited on the bench behind the table across from Ron.

So now Kim was trying to handle this new 'two couple' mode. It wasn't that she didn't think that she could; while it weirded her out, she knew the main reason was simply that it had happened without her or Ron noticing each of _their_ best boy/girl friends coming together into a couple. And even more so, at least while Eric had been messing with everything in her head Kim could tolerate (but not accept) such a lapse. But had the last three weeks been so chaotic with investigations and interviews on top of tutoring and finals; on TOP of the fact that she and Ron had been adjusting to being a couple of their own. had all of that caused her and Ron to be so completely blind to what was now before them? It had to have been for now that she thought those same weeks back over, she realized that Monique and Felix had been _awful_ close during that period and she didn't recognize it.

Well . . . she did now . . . and she liked what she saw.

But having Ron sit next to her in 'their' booth at Bueno Nacho . . . that was going to take more getting use to than the idea of a Monique/Felix couple. It wasn't that she didn't like Ron being at her side, hips touching, a sense of tingling closeness; it was just that she liked the way that she could always look into his eyes when they were across from each other. She felt that she knew that he felt the same way about it as well.

"So Ron," Felix asked as he grinned, his eyes going from his friend across from him to the black girl beside him, the both of them recovering from gorging on something with so much grease that if he attempted to eat it, it would cause his face to become a minefield. "It's Thursday night. We have tomorrow off since the 'teachers' have to doing their yearend reports. That means that you have two days to finish the plans for The Big Night. How are the preps going?"

Ron was three quarters through his third Naco, bulging cheeks looking so like a hamster. Due to that, the response that he gave Felix was a thumbs up and an enthusiastic nod of the head.

Felix's question however, had a slightly different reaction on Ron's girlfriend. Kim's eyes went a little wide and it kind of looked like she shook herself a little. Felix looked over at her, "Kim? You okay?"

"Yes," Kim said, but her eyes were now looking pointedly sidelong at her boyfriend besides her. "Ron," and Felix's eyes narrowed just a pinch because the 'lightness and normality' in Kim's voice sounded a little pushed, "I haven't had a chance to tell you yet, but there was a mission on my computer in my locker that I accepted. It's not an emergency but we leave about noon tomorrow."

Ron gave her a questioning look but then cocked his head back and with a mighty gulp, swallowed the whole contents of his mouth. After a quick wipe of his face (using a napkin instead of his sleeve Kim noted with pride), "that's cool KP. I was going to try to make sure I had everything for the Big Night ready tonight in case we, you and I, had a mission between now. I also wanted it done in case we; and now, (and he nodded at the 'new couple' across from him) all of us wanted to do something tomorrow to celibate the end of school. But if our friends here want to take a wait on tomorrow, I can be ready to go at noon."

"Ron . . . Ron Stoppable . . . doing something _ahead_ of time?" This was from Monique in a very disbelieving tone. She had not been able to speak for a moment as she was not been able to swallow her mouthful in quite the same way as the boy across from her (another fact being that she was only on her _first_ Naco), taking her just a little bit longer to rejoin the conversation. She smirked an evil grin at Ron who was just giving her a 'superior' look back before she then looked to Kim and asked, "what kind of mission?"

Kim kind of threw her head one-way and one hand the other way as if it was 'no big' (but at the same time she avoided Monique's questioning eyes). "I don't have all the details yet," the redhead replied making it sound oh so routine, "but we're suppose to be guarding something."

Monique's and Felix's eyes both narrowed slightly. "How long do you expect to be gone?" Felix asked.

Kim's hand, after the expressive 'throw out' gesture, had come around stealthily under the table, coming to rest on the rear pocket of her pants—

The all-familiar tone carried through the air. Kim jumped up, palming the Kimmunicator in her rear pants pocket, "ooppps, forgot that I had a last minute meeting with the eco-club." She leaned in and gave Ron a quick peck on the cheek, "I'll call you tonight—" she then gave Monique and Felix a wave and she was out the door.

Monique's face folded into a deep frown. "_That_ was weird."

Ron just shrugged. "KP's got so many things going on that I'm surprised that she's got time to do anything."

"But this mission your going on tomorrow Ron," Felix definitely had a worried tone in his voice, "how do we know that you'll be back in time for The Big Night?"

Ron threw off a wave of his hand. "Kim would never accept anything that would interfere with something so important. I for one, am not going to worry about it."

Monique and Felix, for some reason that Ron couldn't fathom, continued to look unconvinced.

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"We're going _where_?" Ron's voice went up half an octave—

"Ron," Kim's reply had some exasperation in it, "it's no big—"

"We're doing _**WHAT**_?" Ron's voice had now made the full octave—

"Ron—amp down, you'll distract the pilot—"

Her boyfriend finally stopped talking, but he was looking at her with such open mouthed disbelief—after a moment that mouth closed, the eyes became empty and wet, the lower lip trembled—

"But—but" and Ron actually sounded like a three year old who had been told 'no cookie', "The Big Night! The end of the school year blowout! The event that we ALL have been waiting for for weeks! The final SMACKUP for the world champion between Steel Toe and—"

"Ron—" and Kim was clearly annoyed, "this mission is important!"

"Kim!" Ron came right back, his tone indicating that he thought that she was both insane and sorely out of touch with reality, "nothing is as important than this match! It was practically the only thing that got me through finals—"

Ron's mouth snapped closed on that sentence as 'the look' came into a certain pair of emerald eyes. "That—and my bon-diggity lovely, oh-so-helpful-and-demanding-turtor-of-a-bestfriend/girlfriend-who-helped-me-study-hard-for-all-the-finals of course," he hastily amended.

Kim's arms had crossed in front of her and her eyes smoked for another couple of moments, her memories going back to just how much the 'anticipation' of this same said 'Big Night' had cause way too much distraction and lack of concentration on same said study for finals (and just maybe if she considered it, another reason why she had missed the Monique/Felix linkup). That was only 'one' of several reasons why her own feelings for 'The Big Night' were something less than—

But Kim shook that thought out of her head. Right now she had to deal with the immediate, which meant that she had to keep herself calm about it—

"Ron," Kim forcibly changed her voice to try to sound reasonable, trying another tack to make her point, "what we're going too is important to the entire world. It's Italy, it's Milan, we're going there specifically because we're being asked to protect some of the most valuable items on the planet."

Ron's eyes got even wider and disbelief flashed in them and his tone. "We're going to a (his hands snapped up and flashed 'air quotes') fashion show KP. Their all over the TV and the magazines and—"

"Milan ranks right with Paris for fashion," Kim snapped back, 'calm' going right out the window, her annoyance at the 'WHOLE THING' back in full force. "And like I said, what is shown there affects what everybody wears all over the planet while your GWA is only for mental juveniles of all ages—"

Ron slowly crossed his arms, the beginnings of anger coming into his face. "Do you include Monique and Felix in that oh so narrow-minded estimate?"

Kim threw up her hands. "Yes! Unfortunately I do include Monique in that category, but given the choice between your stupid GWA SMACKUP and the Milan fashion expo, I KNOW which one Monique would pick!"

"I don't think you're very sure of that estimate," Ron said back in a low, controlled voice, sounding as if (if it could be believed) he was talking to a two year old. "If you had been, I think you would have said something when all of us were together yesterday afternoon in Bueno Nacho. But nnnooooooooooo, all you tell me and them is that we have a sudden mission; you don't answer to the where or what of it despite the fact that Mo asked you that question. And as I recall, you specifically avoided answering when Felix asked you just how long this mission would take. KP, you _knew_ the GWA party is at MY house tomorrow . . . that is Saturday night, a party which we . . . we . . . as in all of us, have been planning for how long, a party which included both Mo's brother and both of your brothers . . . a party that all week you have . . . pointedly REFRAINED from saying anything good about—"

"I said loud and long," Kim hotly retorted, "that I had no interest in spending an entire evening with a bunch of loons screaming over something as fake as—"

"KP!" Ron sounded truly shocked. "This is the FIRST TIME my mom has allowed me to throw a party at our house! There is absolutely NO WAY that you could refuse to come—"

Ron suddenly stopped as if something had just occurred to him. A pained . . . hurtful . . . look came over him, denial flooding his face even as the horror in his tone gave voice to what he could only hope was the completely impossible—

"You . . . you didn't . . . Kim . . . I can't believe that you . . . you didn't . . . accept this mission in order to . . . you WOULDN'T just because you don't like wrestling . . . you COULDN'T for a single moment purposely on purpose . . . do that to us would you? To . . . me . . . would you? You wouldn't intentionally do something to . . . to . . . to cause the FIRST ANNUAL BIG GWA SMACKUP PARTY AT RON STOPPABLE'S HOUSE MADE POSSIBLE ONLY BECAUSE HIS MOTHER FINALLY ALLOWED HIM TO AND BECAUSE HIS FATHER FINALLY GOT THE HOME BOX SEAT CHANNEL . . . TO BE CANCELLED . . . would you?"

Kim's arms were folded in front of her chest, the look on her face could only be described as a glower—"Ron," she started—

Kim's hair then blew back from her face as Ron let out a HUGE breath—

"Oh you had me going there for a second," the blond boy babbled, face in his hands in his lap, almost sobbing out his relief. "I really really really really really thought for a second that you were going to tell me that just because you've dissed and ridiculed and blasted our plans for the party loud and long all week that you were really going to say that you took this mission just so the party could be a bust. I told Monique and Felix to trust because you wouldn't accept a mission that would take us through Saturday—"

"Ron, the fashion show is all weekend! We wont be going home until Sunday night—"

Ron's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed in intense thought; he added two and twelve, subtracted three, multiplied by six, deducted a simple fraction from that and then tried (but couldn't remember how) to round it out to the nearest whole number—

Anyway . . . eventually he came up with four—

The scream that emitted from the fast courier jet 40,000ft over the eastern seaboard caused 911 calls to be made from Maryland to Connecticut.

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A/N: This is the first of two 'side stories' that took place during WSCS. I hope that it will help those who have been sending me PM's wondering when things would pick up again. I hope that you will like what you read.

Once more into the breech—

With hope that we're not ejected as a bad cartridge—

The Wise Duck


	2. Anger ManagementUnsettled Arrangements

A/N: Would of course like to thank everybody who read the first part of this new story. And to those who took the time to send a review, I as always am very grateful. Some of the tone of the rest of the story has already been affected by those reviews so please continue. It only makes the story better I hope.

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Kim Possible didn't know if she should be furious or worried—she didn't deal well with either.

But then, she'd never had to deal with a Ron Stoppable who wouldn't talk to her for several, several hours before. Despite all her attempts to defuse the situation, to get him to lighten up, to get him on a different subject that would work him out of his funk, nothing had even chipped at the armor of his 'mad face'. His upper body, regardless of whither he was sitting, standing or walking, stayed in the same, arms crossed, head lowered, jaw set, eyes blazing clench.

They were now in Milan, in a hired car taking them from the airport. Kim knew that she had to get Ron though his funk quickly—

There was only one thing to do—

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Ron Stoppable was upset beyond any point of reference . . . which fortunately, given his present body language of arms crossed, head lowered, jaw set, eyes blazing, body clenched of his body . . . could not possibly be mistaken for some of his normal periods when lost to daydreaming—

But Ron had managed to convince himself that this was no dream; somehow he had managed, because deep inside he was still hoping that he wouldn't have to manage and that it would be a dream—but he had forced himself to tell himself that he had managed to manage to convince himself that his girlfriend—the light and love of his life—had intentionally conspired within herself—premeditated with criminal intent and malice aforethought—

Somehow through the gloom of his doom, Ron became aware that . . . he felt . . . something . . . some kind . . . some kind of pressure rising against his side/back. He was sitting in the back seat of the limo with Kim, something that in the old days probably would have caused chaos as he explored (and probably bent/damaged/destroyed) things like the bar or the entertainment system but nowadays would have been an opportunity to snuggle with his brand new girlfriend. But in his trauma, his agony, he was half turned to the darkened windows (even if he couldn't see anything out of them), purposely showing her his side/back as a sign of just how upset he was.

The pressure . . . almost . . . didn't feel . . . physical. It was almost . . . intangible . . . like the feeling when you _knew_ that someone was watching you from behind.

And . . . it had a . . . disturbingly familiar . . . feel to it.

Ron, had to kind of unlimber himself for his arm crossed, head lowered, jaw set, eyes blazing clench was starting to hurt as a result of the pressure . . . that seemed to be beating at him . . . and the action of shifting around only made things feel worse.

First and foremost he was trying to understand or guess . . . why did it feel so familiar . . . and why was it increasing, starting to feel like it was now . . . pounding on him . . . or at least on his mind as if something metaferickly (?!) beating the back of his head.

It finally reached the point where Ron was starting to have trouble with concentrating on why he was so mad at Kim. Yes, he knew how she felt about the GWA. Yes, how could he not be aware that anything having to do with foreign counties and high fashion would be absolutely irresistible to her. And yes, he would do ANYTHING for her but at the same time, a man had to draw a line when his own needs were in danger—

The pressure was now actually 'sounding rhythm' as if there was a drum banging within his head. And what was worse that its 'presence' was now that he 'knew' what it was but at the same time could not tell what it was because of the spell it wove, an uneasy, frightening spell of acute disappointment, terrible rejection and pressing need that put his own feelings of the situation and time to insignificant shame.

Ron had to blink his eyes in order to try to clear them as they had seemed to have fogged. He—

Ron looked into the blacked-out window directly in front of his face at the reflection held within it and he realized—

"Nooooo!" the wail tore from him—

Ron tried to stiffen his resolve—

Ron tried to hold his ground—

But his downfall was now inevitable as in horror, with the certainty of a fly being drawn into the web of a spider; he was forced to turn his face fully into the terrible power of a force of nature unique unto itself—

—Kim Possible's Puppy Dog Pout!

"Kim! No!" Ron managed as he threw himself toward the floor of the limo.

"Ron—? his girlfriend started.

Ron rolled up to face her. "Can't you see how much this hurts? You deliberately did this to get away from The Big Night! You not only hurt me but everybody else that was looking forward to it! And—" Ron's eyes got misty and his lower lip trembled, "you did it by running out on us at Bueno Nacho when we were questioning you. You . . . you did that so that we would all forget about it. Kim—" Ron's face looked—"you didn't lie to me . . . but you hid things that I, Monique and Felix should have had a right to know—"

Kim's face had taken on a defensive hardness. Her tone was equally defensive. "If you hadn't been so insistent on my being at your stupid, juvenile wrestling party, I probably would have let you go alone and I would have come on this mission by myself, letting all the rest of you enjoy that stupid farce—"

Ron stopped . . . and kind of shook his head as if he really didn't hear what Kim had just said. But he had to believe it. "You mean, that you really meant it . . . you meant that you didn't want to come to The Big Night even if it meant that we couldn't be _together_ for our first party as a couple?"

"If we were a couple" she fired back her features going even harder, "you wouldn't be trying to _force_ me to go to something that I _detest_!"

"Kim," Ron was struggling to try to find _something_ to throw some good light on what was turning bad so quickly, " but Monique and Felix and Monique's brother were looking forward to you being there."

"In case you didn't notice Ron!" Kim's words were short and clipped. "Monique has been trying to convince me all week that I would enjoy myself if I only gave it a chance. Why should I give something that is so ridiculous and phony a chance in the first place and even if I _did_, what kind of chance do I have to enjoy something if my _brothers_ are there? In that kind of an environment? Don't _any_ of you have a clue? TWEEB heaven, older sister HELL!"

Ron seemed for a moment to finally get a glimpse of where Kim was coming from. And what he realized made him all that much angrier.

"Kim," his voice low, disbelief flaring in his eyes, "I can't believe that you would let something like this affect you so much . . . especially when I'm not the only one being hurt. EVERYBODY but you was looking forward to The Big Night, to the SMACKUP; you're going to ruin it for all of them! Okay, get mad at me then for trying to force you into it . . . but why ruin it for everybody else? Are you _that_ mad at me that you're punishing _them_ as well?"

"Fine!" that came out as a snarl actually forcing Ron back a little, "I'll use the Kimmunicator then to call my mom and she'll call your folks. I'm sure that they'll still allow the stupid party to go on without you if they think you're STUCK on a _real important_ mission, not wasting your time with something so phony!"

The fire drained from Ron's face . . . he looked at his girlfriend as if he didn't know who she really was. After a moment, he managed to say, "does this . . . this . . . fashion show really mean that much to you? Is it really that important a mission?"

Kim was looking at her friend of so many years, saw his face, heard his tone, _heard_ the question and realized that she was going to have to tell him about the _other_ reason . . . the . . . real . . . reason . . . beyond the fact that she felt that she was being _forced_ to go to an event she wanted nothing to do with. She was going to have to tell Ron about—

She . . . she couldn't do that—

Even though . . . she knew that he was going to find out eventually—

But—

Kim—suddenly and without any prior indication dropped her head—

Ron was shocked! For Kim to break off like that—

"K—KP . . . are you alright?"

After a long moment . . . "no I'm . . . not."

"What—KP . . . ?"

A long moment passed, it seemed as if Kim was wrestling with something of her own. And Ron found that more disturbing than anything that had yet happened. It was almost a full minute before Kim managed to say, "Ron . . . I don't think I'm wrong in this . . . but . . . technically . . . I guess that I am." She took a deep breath, obviously trying to say what she had to say in a certain way, and she wasn't happy about it. "I'm guess I'm sorry Ron . . . you're probably right . . . and I should be ashamed of myself."

But Ron . . . he knew her . . . better than he knew himself sometimes. He felt his own insides tighten. She was saying what she was saying because she _knew_ that she was wrong . . . but she didn't _believe_ that she was wrong. She was apologizing . . . sort of . . . only because she knew that she had too . . . because the bottom line was, that in this instance, even though she _was_ wrong and deep inside knew it, her surface feelings and opinions said that she was the one who was right and no one else could or would see it her way.

He knew here well enough as well to know . . . that there was something else . . . and for some reason . . . she wasn't telling him.

After a moment Kim's head came up and Ron saw both embarrassment and anger in her look. He also realized that she was fishing out the Kimmunicator.

"Kim," Ron started—

"Don't bother," she said sullenly, "I'll have Wade round up some transport to get us back home. We'll still have to meet with our hosts so that I can explain and apologize for not being able to handle—"

"No Kim," Ron said, not really believing that he was doing what he was doing, but deep inside, he had known all along that there was only one way this argument would end. "You already accepted the mission," he said tiredly. "You can't go back on it now. Your rep and everything else would be damaged."

Kim's eyes had dropped to the Kimmunicator, but now they came back up to the boy next to her—

Kim found that she was slightly . . . shocked by Ron's offer. Knowing that he loved his wrestling as much as she hated it . . . and deep, deep inside, she also recognized that he had said things like 'you' and 'your' (meaning her) instead of 'we' . . . instead of the team . . . and that, along with what she was still . . . not telling him (with the little voice inside of her screaming for her to come clean while she had the chance) made her very upset with herself. But at the same time—

"Are—are you serious?" she asked.

"Unfortunately . . . yes," Ron answered with a heavy sigh. "I'm . . . " and he had to stop as if he was about to say something that he had sudden second thoughts about but, " . . . I'm really upset about you taking this mission this way. But . . . you took it . . . and that means that you have to carry it though . . . and I . . . have to be there with you." Ron then gave her a glare that actually caused a lump in her throat. "I'll get over it—" and then his whole body turned away, allowing Kim to barely catch the last part, "I always do . . . " The entire move was one of total rejection towards her.

Kim sat back in her seat . . . trying to analyze just how she felt at the moment. One part of her was . . . happy—triumphant . . . almost singing because she was going to get to see . . . but another part . . . angry . . . angry at Ron for not seeing things _her_ way and/or for being involved in the whole stupid wrestling thing in the first place . . . along with anger and disbelief at herself for what she had just done to the boy she was suppose to lo—lo—

"Kim," Her head snapped up from where it had fallen . . . but she didn't look at Ron . . . she just kept her face looking forward . . . because his tone was . . . was . . .

"Please," and there was a hardness in his voice that Kim had never heard from him. "Please . . . don't _ever_ use the Puppy Dog Pout on me when we're having this kind of an argument again. It's . . . just not fair—"

Now a new emotion washed through Kim—

Shame—

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"Signorina Possible—" The elegantly dressed man with the salt and pepper goatee held out his hand even as he dipped a bow to her, giving Kim the impression that a mountain was looming over her for he was as wide as he was tall.

"And you must be Mr. Getty," Kim replied taking his hand firmly even as she stepped out of the hired car, more than grateful to move on and put the last couple of hours behind her. The rest of the trip in the hired car, other than the promised call she had made to her mom about Ron's GWA party, had been to say the least . . . uncomfortably quiet. Kim had been plagued by her own thoughts, fighting between anger/annoyance and shame/sorrow. To try and clear her head for the meeting that she knew had been coming, Kim finally had rolled down her window to watch the ancient city go by. In the end, this had attracted Ron's attention and they (as if nothing had happened between them) had started to point at things or talk about things they saw going by. Kim had been . . . much relieved that Ron didn't hold onto anger anywhere near as long as she did. But she also knew that another, even worse storm was coming and she couldn't bring herself to face it. So at the moment, she was actually glad for the distraction of the avalanche of humanity hovering over her.

"Your reputation of course precedes you," Getty said smoothly . . . and with equal smoothness, a single fluid movement turned them both about and Kim found her hand (and her entire forearm as well) firmly in the crook of his very large arm, the Gentleman now leading her along into the Center, speaking in easy tones, "I hope your trip was satisfactory and I'm sure that you will want to freshen up prior to—"

Getty continued to prattle on even as Kim sputtered and coughed and tried to get a word in edgewise, looking back over her shoulder at her boyfriend who still stood alone (since the car had driven off), hand half up to accept his own greeting handshake, face a combination of surprise and dejection. Finally Kim dug her heels into the pavement—

The resulting sensation was like the time she'd had a hold of a line on a large slowly drifting yacht that had steadfastly refused to submit it's thousand tons to her one hundred pounds and had literally dragged her heels down the dock until she had almost gone off the end of the pier. Getty also had her arm so firmly held that she couldn't pull herself out of his grip—

Then Kim felt the sensation of something flashing between her skidding feet, saw something 'zip' up Getty's front—and nearly had her arm disjointed when the mountain who was a Gentleman suddenly STOPPED!

"What?!" was all she heard Getty say as she again struggled unsuccessfully to get her arm loose—

The Kim clearly heard an angry chittering coming from the direction of Getty's face, making her realize—

"Just what is—" Getty managed—

"His name," and Ron was suddenly in front of Getty, looking as if (from Kim's angle) that he was practically climbing up the huge mans front, with a large phony smile on his face and a patronizing tone in his voice, "is Rufus. He's not a what—he's a Naked Mole Rat and—"

"Oh yes," Getty stated, sounding back on balance, "one of Ms Possible's entourage. A very effective operative if I recall."

Kim practically had both feet planted in Getty's side as she tried repeatedly to pull her arm loose, at this point not even caring if the sleeve was torn off of her mission shirt. She stopped, horrified when she heard Getty ask, in a very demeaning voice, "and just who are you young man and why are you standing on my belt buckle?"

Ron's voice turned soft, "I'm Stoppable, Ron Stoppable, I'm Kim's part—"

"Oh yes," and Getty's voice _dripped_ scorn. "Another part of the entourage. The one known as . . . 'The Distraction' wasn't it . . . also known at 'The Buffoon' I believe."

Kim lost it! She karate chopped Getty's funny bone, probably harder than she should . . . and grimaced in pain and surprise from her protesting hand for it was like striking the steel armor on a Main Battle Tank! But there was enough of a nerve jerk in Getty's arm for her to pull her arm out (without loosing her sleeve or her fingers).

Kim landed lightly and scrambled around to the front of the man/mountain to see Ron (who really _was_ having to stand on Getty's belt buckle in order to look the man in the eye), definitely in 'serious face' mode even with one arm stretched wayyyyy out trying to grab Rufus who was being held even farther aloft in Getty's other hand.

"Mr. Getty" Kim was trying so hard to keep her voice 'civil', "Ron is my partner. Rufus is my partner. I don't _have_ an entourage—"

Getty looked down at Kim, for the first time in their short period of contact, skepticism, questioning and haughtiness was present in his eyes. "Signorina Possible, this is The Milan Fashion Debut. There are no . . . partners here. There are only Important People and those Important Peoples entourages. We contacted Signorina Kimberly Possible for security for some very specific 'precious items'. You therefore are an Important Person. That means that everything around and about you is your entourage which if you choose may also include," and Getty's eyes went back to Ron, distaste flashing within them, " . . . a Buffoon."

Kim gritted her teeth and felt her emerald eyes flare even as she her little voice of common sense tried to talk her anger down to something that would both smooth over this incident and get Ron/Rufus off the 'metaphorical hook' that they were presently hung on.

"Cool—" and that came from Ron who dropped down in front of her, striking an equally 'cool' pose to match his exclamation. "Hey KP, I've never been an on-tow-raj before. Are there fancy duds to go with that title, something in a flashy red maybe?"

Kim felt herself . . . 'sag'. "No Ron, there's not," she answered in an equally 'sagging' voice, grateful that Ron didn't understand, grateful that his 'not understanding' was apparently defusing the situation for Getty was looking calmer and was starting to put Rufus down . . . and wondering just how long it would be before Ron . . . understood . . . and followed his usual off-the-deep-end reaction pattern.

Ron looked sad at her answer but immediately bucked up. "Hey, this is a 'Fashion Show' (again with the air quotes), maybe one of these big shot designers can make an on-tow-raj something." Rufus in the meantime had scampered up onto Ron's shoulder and was looking back over at Getty with a 'so-not-friendly' expression on his little face.

"Later Ron," Kim said tiredly, pressing one hand to her forehead. She then looked up at Getty, "can you just show us to our room's please?"

"This way Signorina Possible," was the now very neutral reply.

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"Hey, hey, hey, cllaaassssssyyyy," Ron exclaimed as they walked into the suite located on the upper rear of the complex. He had haphazardly dumped his backpack in the middle of the floor just inside of the entrance even as Rufus had jumped off of his shoulder for parts unknown. Ron then walked further into the room, rubbernecking so hard that it gave Kim a twinge in her own neck. She herself was a little taken aback as she neatly placed her backpack on a chair, looking around with open mouth as she did so. The mission request on her web site had said that accommodations would be provided but she certainly hadn't expected anything like _this_!

At the same time . . . she didn't think that a 'security job' would qualify someone as an 'Important Person'.

"Ah . . . KP," Ron called for he had disappeared into a door far across the huge 'living area with enormous panoramic windows', "by the way, just how did you swing a multi-night away from home?"

She had wondered over to the dining area, noting that there was no kitchen other than an elaborate 'wet bar' with snacks and such (one very large bowl was shaking violently with debris flying—she had found Rufus). "Dad left yesterday morning to attend a series of meetings and seminars at the Space Center in Huston. It's supposed to go through to the end of next week. Mom was more than willing to cover and she was going to let you're folks know as well. I don't think I told you," Kim added in a . . . 'tight' tone, "but when I talked to her right before we were dropped off by the limo, you know, when you had your head stuck in the wet bar door; your dad told my mom that there was no problem in his hosting 'The Big Night'."

Kim waited for Ron's reply . . . and when it didn't come, she looked over toward where her boyfriend had disappeared. She saw Ron come out of another door, a little taken aback that he was wearing a 'minor serious face' even as he ducked into another door.

"Ron, what are you doing?"

There was no reply.

"Ron . . . ??" she tried again.

"KP—" and Kim felt her back stiffen a little for Ron was using a wary tone used for things that were sick and wrong—like his finding that it was cheese sauce instead of real cheese on his naco—

"Ron—what is it?" she asked again, not knowing if she should be wary.

Ron came out of the last door, came half the distance into the living area toward her, turned around and poked a finger out at each and every doorway that was visible leaving the area. "Office, gym, den . . . " he didn't say anything when he pointed to the last door.

"Ron—"

"There's only a single bedroom here KP . . . with only one, single, very large bed—"

Kim realized that Ron was . . . blushing at the unvoiced thought—

—but then, so was she.

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The room was a 'medium' sized space as spaces such as these went. But the number of people crammed into it, on phones, on cellphones, on desktops, on laptops, on blackberries and phones, on desktops and blackberries, on cellphones and laptops, on phones and desktops and laptops and blackberries and cellphones (looking like they had to have six arms), waving documents, waving photos, waving pieces of cold food, and while Italian might have been the primary language, by far it wasn't the only, or most shrill one. Chaos would have been calmer . . . and quieter.

Kim and Ron (Rufus had been left back in the suite to continue to destroy the snacks) found themselves 'propelled' out of the door within seconds of their stopping in it by the sheer mass of humanity flowing both ways through it. They had been left 'directions' to the event 'nerve center' but the reality was that, once they were out of the guest suites area, all they had to do was head toward the sounds of pandemonium.

Fortunately, the sheer size of the object of their quest made finding him no problem at all.

"Mr. Getty!" Kim practically had to shout over the din to get his attention. The big Gentleman looked over at the two of them (his eyes distinctly cooling when they lit on Ron), and with a gesture, he led them over to a small office towards the side. He closed the door behind them, lowering the decibels to something almost manageable. "I trust that your accommodations are most satisfactory Ms Possible," Getty asked in a pleasantly neutral voice.

Kim felt an involuntary blush coming on again which caused her to hesitate in answering—

Which gave Getty a chance to turn to Ron and ask, "and you found the guide to where your room is?"

The two teens blinked. "What guide?" Ron managed to ask.

The hauteur came back into Getty's look/tone. "As Signorina Possible's entourage, you are rooming down in the basement with the other entourages. I believe," and a smug satisfaction came into his tone, "that you are . . . bunking with five members of Signor Lasagna's group. None of them speak English of course but I am told that they are . . . buffoonish." A cutting smile came with that last word. And an even more malicious look/tone came into being when he added, "now, if the fact is that the two of you intend to sleep together, I would appreciate your telling me so that I might free up the bed in the basement for another—"

Kim _felt_ Ron's hackles rise. But before her boyfriend tried to climb the mountain of a man before them, she firmly grabbed his hand in hers and said in a cool voice, "yes, Ron will be staying with me so you can have your bed. And it doesn't matter what you might think about it. We know what we're really about and what you might think doesn't matter."

Getty gave her a bored shrug. "You forget Signorina Possible, this is Italy, this is Fashion, beauties from twelve to twenty-one from all over the world parading themselves as not much more than very high priced courtesans selling a different kind of sex. It may be a jaded view of propriety," and then just a hint of maliciousness came back into his face, "but ah . . . that is very much part of the attraction of it all is it not?"

Kim tried not to glare, and she could still feel Ron bristling besides her—

"But," Getty continued in a resigned tone, "since I seem to detect that while you wish to . . . 'room' together I believe is the American term . . . but you do not intend to 'sleep' together (neither teen could detect if it was malice or scorn as he used that those terms) the couch in your den converts into a bed. It is meant for the personal bodyguard of the Important Person. I will have it made up."

Getty turned back to and reached for the door, "and now if the . . . two of you," his tone conveyed his feelings on the subject, "will follow me, it is almost time for you to meet with The Chief."

With the door opening and the deluge of noise crashing in from the office, the 'two' of them had no choice but to follow in silence.


	3. FunctionDysfunction

Despite the sitch, Kim could not help but do a little rubbernecking of her own as they walked through the center. Some of what she saw made her want to squeal like a little girl while others caused the caught breaths of amazement. The absolute highlight was the close glimpse of Coco Banana she got as they passed by a door that was just in the process of closing. Other things such as—

"KP," Ron nudged against her, "isn't that—"

Kim's head snapped over in anticipation, only to have her features go cold and stony—

"Comon Ron," she muttered in a sudden frosty tone that left Ron uncomfortable even as she dragged him along with her. Ron then came to realize that Kim still hadn't forgiven the woman known as 'Elsa' for 'The Kim Look' from their freshman year—

Shortly after that, they turned down a guarded corridor, at the end of which was a dark room that resembled the Mission Control at her dad's Space Center. The sole source of light seemed to be the monitors and computer screens and flashing lights—

"Ooooooo,"

"Ron," Kim hissed, her mood uncharacteristically on edge after a too long, too emotionally convoluted day.

Getty however just stopped and waved the two teens on before him. With a glance back up at the huge man, both Kim and Ron went past him wondering just who it was that they were suppose to meet.

Kim of course was in the lead. She was just in the process of walking past the end of one of the long control consoles, eyes casting around for whom it was that they were suppose to—

Then she bumped into something solid, her head snapping around and straight down—

And she turned an amazing shade of red, redder in fact than her own hair when she realized that this very little man had his nose buried in her mission shirt exposed navel.

"I say—do you mind?" came the oh-so-calm, almost amused voice, speaking directly into the buckle of her utility belt!

"Yeep!" was all Kim managed to say, her reactions like her emotions in a state of knee-jerk as she took an instant step back—

"Oohhfff!" an instant step back into her boyfriend that is.

Kim closed her eyes and took a long, slow, deep breath . . . desperately wondering if _anything_ on this mission was going to pass as 'normal' . . . only to be rewarded with a knowing chuckle from in front of her . . . even though the chuckle was at the level of her belt buckle.

"Tut, tut Ms. Possible, we shouldn't start that close a bonding on our first meeting now should we?" Kim forced her eyes open to look at the man in front of her. As she looked at him, she was greatly surprised that she hadn't knocked him down. Very, very thin with almost toothpicks for arms and legs, a very long thin face which immediately reminded her of the figureheads of the statues on Easter Island—

His face also reminded her of . . . something . . . or someone else . . . in a way that left her vaguely but definitely uncomfortable. And what was worse . . . was the look on his face that despite the smile there, told her that he knew his appearance gave her an uncomfortable feeling.

Also, unlike Getty's who's correct and precise English was still flavored with a strong Italian accent, this man's English was ENGLISH, clipped and even . . . which also caused a stir somewhere in Kim's memory.

But after a moment, the little mans attention shifted past her, "that will be all Spa. I will escort our distinguished agents back if necessary. I know that you have several burdens to still cast off before tomorrow morning."

Kim was still partially entwined with Ron, but she could almost sense Getty's dislike, his abrupt bow and the eddies in the air as his massive form departed. Kim gently pulled herself loose from her boyfriend, wondering (and praying) that Ron wasn't going to pick up on—

"Spa??" she heard her boyfriend say, causing Kim to internally wince.

But the little man only chuckled again. He leaned in close to the two teens, telling them in a conspiratorial tone, "his full name is Spalatore and his insists; backed up by his strength and size of course, on being called solely by his last name. Only those whom he does not wish to offend can get away with calling him Spa," and the thin face smiled wickedly, "and we generally only do it simply to bother the old boy."

The little man snapped back upright and offered a hand, "Kim Possible, Ron Stoppable, Hannibal Grippe at your service." The two teens shook the offered hand, Ron seemingly with intense delight that _someone_ knew who he was, accented by the fact that Grippe then asked, "by the way young Ronald, where is your intrepid mole rat?" While her boyfriend responded with enthusiasm, his girlfriend mentally backed off and wondered if those were sounds of satisfaction going off between her ears—

Or were they the grinding of mental teeth because . . . she was suddenly the one left standing idol while her boyfriend talked hairless pets with the man who supposedly brought _her_ in to guard some very special item? It was an . . . unwelcomed, uncomfortable feeling on several levels—

Several of which once again left Kim Possible feeling very upset with herself.

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"Do have a seat," Grippe (or 'Han' as he seemed on insisting they call him) directed the teen pair toward a comfortable looking couch in an expansive office at the rear of the control area. "Might I be able to offer you some tea?"

Both teens demurred, sitting down onto the indicated couch; Ron to Kim's immediate annoyance, sprawling back with legs spread wide and arms akimbo across/over the back. She sat down an appropriate distance from Ron, sitting upright in a proper position of attentive concentration.

"I do realize," Grippe continued, pouring himself a cup from the service behind his desk (with only his head visible from in front of the desk) and adding the appropriate accessories, "that you probably still need to get a decent meal into you as well as some sleep, if for no other reasons than jet lag. However, I did wish to touch on some of the points of interest we will encounter on the morrow."

"And just exactly what is this 'morrow' that we're suppose to encounter?" Ron instantly asked, Kim trying not to bite her lip or roll her eyes—

Just the corner of Grippe's eyebrow seemed to quiver at this. He took a moment to get into the comfortably padded high chair that was behind his desk before he pressed on. "The items in question will be kept in an ultra high security location elsewhere in the city until just before dawn. They will then be transported in armored vehicles to the basement of this complex. They will remain in those vehicles under heavy guard until just before they are needed for the models to make their entrance onto the runway. As I am sure that we agree that the most dangerous parts of the evolution will be when they are out of the locked cases while in the back stage area with all the accompanying chaos that always occurs there as well as the period when they are being worn by the models and paraded on The Runway itself. The models are totally exposed there with no barriers other than the raised platform of The Runway itself to hinder someone rising from the crowd or on balance, the danger of someone swooping down from above despite all the additional security we might place in and among the audience or in the overhead scaffolding and lighting platforms. I might add," and at this point, he gave the two teens a 'significant' look, "that I have no specific intelligence that any of our 'precious items' are in danger but at the same time . . . I have . . . both a feeling . . . and . . . that there is some normal rumor and speculation that I am _not_ hearing . . . which in fact I find bothersome to no small degree. I do wish I had more to go on but I'm afraid that I can not be more specific than that at this time."

Now Kim did bite at her bottom lip, one pointed finger resting in front of that same lip as her mind attacked the problem. "Well," she said after a moment, "I can't make a good determination of the sitch without looking at the actual site, but I would say that The Runway is the most dangerous place as the other security you are referring to can accompany the items in the backstage area almost all the way to the start of The Runway." She thought another minute. "I think tentatively, that it would be best if I placed myself in the scaffolding above in order to let gravity help me if I need to get down to The Runway fast."

Han made just the littlest of nods but then, "and leave the backstage area completely uncovered except for the guards who will have little area to maneuver in and no other force or resistance option other than physical due to the presence of the models and support staff?" he inquired with a not too happy a tone.

Kim thought another moment . . . a sudden lifting of an eyebrow indicating that a sudden, totally separate thought had occurred to her. She then gave Han a considering look, one Ron recognized as Kim _wanting_ to be convinced as to what she was being told. "Do you really think—?" she asked.

"I really don't think we should discount it," Grippe replied firmly. "Because the chaos and traffic going in and out of the backstage area can not be effectively controlled during the event itself; high strung 'assistants' who would literally maim and kill rather than allow anything to hinder something _their_ designer employers suddenly requested at the absolute last moment simply will not allow their movements to be hindered in any way. Plus of course the possibility of something or someone unauthorized slipping in remains distinct."

"I could cover the backstage area KP."

Kim didn't move for a moment, then her head slowly turned until her boyfriend found himself staring into an emerald eyed basilisk, "heh . . . heh . . . heh . . . did I . . . say something wrong KP?"

Kim attempted to keep a lid on her temper, after everything that she had already done to Ron in the last day, the last thing she wanted to do was rip him up, especially in front of an important stranger. But this was just too _sick and wrong_ leaving her unable to restrain herself. "It's a _fashion show_ Ron! The backstage area is the same as a _dressing room_!"

Ron seemed to blink and shake his head as if trying to get the cobwebs out. "I know what it is KP. I've channel surfed across all those modeling and clothing design shows on the tube I don't know how many times. I've seen theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (at that point, Ron's brain actually kicked into gear, those gears grinding against each other as his memory caught up with certain thoughts that he had had while watching those same sanitized for TV-14 shows and those thoughts/memories were in turn processed . . . and real realization was realized causing common sense and survival instincts to produce a correction . . . which was transferred down with remarkable rapidity from brain to mouth) . . . I'll just shut up now."

Kim continued to glare, feeling horrible as she did so but at the same time she was unable not to do it. That glare did the job though, driving home the point that even in the very unlikely event that Ron was too naive to know what really happened in chaotic high-fashion backstage dressing rooms away from a 'reality program' camera— "You are sooooooooooo not going to be covering the backstage," she growled for extra emphasis.

After continuing to stare frozen daggers at her so-called boyfriend for another moment, Kim finally turned her head back to a plainly amused Grippe, sighing, "I guess I'll cover the backstage area. Ron," and her eyes flashed a look both annoyed and embarrassed without turning her head to the intended target, "will have to cover The Runway."

Grippe considered this a moment then frowned. "Is his reaction time on a par with yours? Will he be able to respond from the scaffolding with the same swiftness as you?"

Kim caught herself and felt herself . . . die a little inside . . . not wanting to give a really honest answer. She suddenly found herself in a trap of her own making since she had really promised both herself and Ron to try and make him a full partner rather than the perceived sidekick, a status so totally reveled by Getty's contemptible treatment of him within the last hour. Kim realized that her recent and present actions regarding this mission had totally and completely endangered bringing Ron up to that level unless . . .

But she just couldn't think she could handle the thought of Ron, watching a roomful of world class models in way too many modes of dress (and undress) . . . but he didn't have the speed and dependability to come down out of the scaffolding—

The silence grew heavy . . . Kim . . . just didn't know what to say . . . she could feel Ron's unhappiness next to her—

Then Kim saw a tic in one of Grippe's eyes . . . followed by a . . . lazy sort of smile. "I," he said very softly, "might have just a bit of an idea. Let me check with my production people. If this works, we can have Ronald right down on The Runway—," and that same smile turned just the littlest bit fiendish.

None of that made Kim feel any better—

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Upon their return to 'her' room, in a heavy complete silence, that was so unfamiliar to the two of them that it seemed like a dream (or nightmare), they found the sofa bed made up for Ron in the den, Rufus passed out on top of the wet bar and not a single molecule of snackage anywhere within the aura of the gorged Mole Rat.

Kim used the service phone, relieved but not surprised to find an English speaker on the other end, to order them a light (comparatively at least for Ron) meal, which was quickly delivered. The two of them ate in a stony silence, without so much as their eyes rising above their plates.

Kim sat on one of the sofas before the big window, morosely checking in with both Wade and her mom while Ron took a quick shower in the single bathroom—

It was with a start that Kim jerked herself awake at some point . . . the jet lag and emotion having caught up with her causing her to dose on the sofa—

Glancing about, she saw the den door was pulled too but not actually closed. A glance at the wet bar showed that Rufus was no longer there. Another glance on the time stamp on her Kimmunicator revealed that she had dosed for over an hour—

_Ron . . . didn't come to get me after he was finished. He . . . didn't even check to see if I was okay or to say goodnight. He's . . . _Kim didn't even finish the thought because 'cranked' wouldn't even come close to how she thought Ron must feel at the moment.

Kim pushed the den door open enough for a sliver of light to come to rest on a blotch of pink resting on top of a covered form—

Kim didn't have a clue just how long she stood there—

She had no clear memory of just what kind of thoughts she had as she stood there—

It was the movement of Rufus's head, it coming up as if he had sensed her watching him and his boy—

Kim instantly jerked away from the door—

A little set of eyes watched the door pull too—

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Of course the room was dark and the figures in it were shadowy.

"Are we all in agreement?" the very high-squeaky voiced figure, medium height with broad shoulders asked.

"And can all of us here be trusted with that agreement?" the huge hulking figure with an accent growled.

"Like youknow," the very skinny, long-haired figure snorted with distain, "nothing says that you have to be such a—"

"I have already said that there is to be no bickering," the squeaky-voiced figure snapped. "Yes, we all have different agendas and different expectations of what we intend to receive from this . . . cooperative association—"

"Yes! We really should try to be friends," the heavy, round-figured, bouncing-with-energy one called—

"I would sooner cut off my hand," the huge one spat . . . along with what sounded like actually spitting on the floor—

"Ohhhhhh, yuck," the round-figured one gurgled—

"GA-rooss," the skinny one whined—then turned to the squeaky one, one hand waving haphazardly toward both the large and huge one, "like youknow, it's really a come down for me to haveta deal with someone so . . . so—"

"If you will remember," the squeaky-voiced one reminded with a frosty tone as if they agreed with the skinny ones assessment but was determined to carry on anyway if only because, "that it was you (pointing at the skinny one) who initially put forth that we should . . . combine our efforts once we realized that all of us were present and interested in our . . . particular goals." The squeaky-voiced one then poked a finger at the skinny and the large one. "You two, for reasons of your own, are practically salivating at the prospect of each of you getting your hands on . . . your respective 'precious objects' (the large heavy-set one clapped hands with childlike glee at this statement) that will be so much a part of this fashion display. "_You_ say (uttered by the squeaky-voiced one while pointing at the huge one, using a tone conveying that the speaker had some serious doubts about the accuracy of what he was about to say), that you want to try to reestablish your bona-fides within your former organization while at the same time extracting revenge on your current employer while _I_," and the squeaky-voiced one placed a hand on its own chest, "also need to reestablish my own bona-fides after being so long . . . away from the scene."

"And to extract your own revenge—" the huge one growled.

The squeaky-voiced one struck what looked to be a 'superior' pose. "Yes, I will readily admit that it was Kim Possible who was responsible for my . . . enforced inactivity—"

"You got THAT right," the round-figured one exclaimed. "That little hussy did the same to me and has done the same several times to my little—"

"Yes, yes, yes," the squeaky-voiced one interjected to put a restraint on the round-figured ones enthusiasm, "we all know for you have told us many, many times. But as I was about to say, Kim Possible is also . . . predictable . . . and we may use that to our advantage, which is why I suggested that we have her placed . . . to guard the precious items."

"Yes," the huge one almost gloated. "The complex was delighted that she would of course do the work for free (and the heavily accented tone of his voice conveyed his total and complete contempt of this) as well as greatly lowering the number of highly paid security that was originally going to be placed to guard those same precious items."

"And at the same time," the round-figured one again literally applauded with her hands, "giving us the opportunity to take what we want in a way that will leave them all gasping at—"

"WHATever," the skinny one groaned. "It'slike wayyyyy past my bedtime andlike, we've done nothing but stand around here andlike aren't we suppose to _plan_ or something—"

"Leave the planning to us," the squeaky-voiced one said flatly, pointing to both himself and the huge one. "Be content with the fact that your part requires little planning and is in fact the safest and most likely to have at least a partial success. You can also take pleasure for providing the . . . expense funds for this operation as mine . . . are still tied up—"

"Don't even want to think about it," the skinny one dismissingly annoyed. "Can we just youknow, get ON with it then?"

"That my dear," and the squeaky-voiced ones 'sinister chuckle' didn't really sound that way due to its upper range octave but, "is exactly what we intend to do—"

"Give Kim Possible her first failure," the huge one grumbled happily.

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Kim couldn't go to sleep. She lay holding the pillow, wishing that it was Pandaroo (a thought that at this moment was all the more bizarre for several reasons). She lay in the bed, the defused but penetrating light of the city coming in through the big windows which she had not bothered to draw the curtains on, wondering things about herself that she had wondered before but with far less intensity and guilt.

_Sure I'm only sixteen_, she grumbled to herself as she tried to mentally justify— _but I'm a very mature sixteen, and my seventeenth birthday isn't all that far off. I should be more . . . I shouldn't have acted so . . . just because I think wrestling is DUMB and FAKE and JUVENILE . . . just because it was something that I didn't plan or help put together . . . just because its something that makes me feel like I'm the odd one out . . . just because the thought of doing something with my brothers feels so . . . so . . . wrong . . . _

A very very sad sigh escaped from Kim's lips as she tried to bury more than her sorrows into the pillow. _I knew that Ron would figure out what happened and I did it . . . I did it anyway. Felix and Monique will figure it out that's for certain. I knew it . . . I knew all of that . . . and yet I did it anyway . . . and part of me says that I'd do it again . . . but that just makes it just as dumb and fake and juvenile as wrestling . . . and I should ssoooo know better._

Kim sighed again (or maybe it might have been a slight sniffle) before giving up on relaxation/sleep and rolling up onto her butt, still gripping the pillow to her middle, she looked out at the lights of the city . . . but she was not seeing them—

_I wonder if Ron realized that the reason why I . . . broke down so suddenly in the limo, that there is still something that I haven't told him. He knows me so well, and I know him . . . and that's why it so sick and wrong what I've done. But I . . . couldn't help it. and I . . . can't help that I can't help it. I KNOW that my . . . childish craving for what happens tomorrow is as stupid and as juvenile as the wrestling but—_

Her head dropped, eyes closed and the pillow was throttled in a death grip. _You're supposed to be so adult Kim Possible . . . so mature . . . you save the freaking world all the time . . . but you have your own little secret don't you . . . and you've freaked each and every time that it started to come out, like that ski trip—_

Kim brought her head up and gathered her legs as well, drawing her knees up to her chin (a move made all the more difficult by the fact that the pillow was now tightly compressed between her chest and legs). Her eyes, just a bit damp, stared out of the windows without seeing. She felt like such a bad girl . . . and she knew that in fact that she was one.

_Face it, you knew . . . you knew Kimberly Anne; that it was only a matter of time before this would bite you in the butt . . . and you were weak . . . you didn't care . . . you were sooooo selfish . . . and the truth be known, probably when you get to see them tomorrow, you wont care less about what you did to get here. _She turned and looked at her dark reflection in the mirror on the dresser. _What does that make you? The end justifying the means. And . . . the cost . . . what kind of damage have you done to Ron? To his trust in you, to your promises to him, to what you wanted to do with him to make him your 'partner'._

A groan escaped her as her head went back down onto her knees. _Our . . . relationship is barely a month old despite all the other history we have. And Ron . . . takes things so . . . totally and completely to himself. So much has been unfair to him . . . and you you dummy, have probably just rendered him the most unkindest cut he's ever had._

Kim plopped her head over sideways on the top of her knees . . . which left her staring at down at the foot of her bed—

It took a moment for her eyes to focus, but somehow she took it in stride. Kim sniffed against a nose that was starting to run in her sad misery before saying quietly, "does Ron . . . hate me?"

The Naked Mole Rat sitting on the very foot of her bed with crossed arms and a frown on his face didn't react at first—

Which gave Kim her answer. She pulled her head slowly up and in complete dejection, put her forehead on her knees before saying, "well, I deserve it. It's all my bad Rufus, and you and Monique and her brother and the Tweebs and Felix and Wade all have good reason to be really cranked at me."

That was followed by what might have been another small rasping sob before, "but Ron . . . the best thing that could happen would be for him to never forgive me . . . . . . I've been ssoooooo wrong Rufus."

Rufus's eyes stayed hard for another moment . . . then the little guy melted down some in realizing that his 'other person' before him was really sorry and tired and hurting from her own misdeeds.

Kim sniffed again, noting that in another minute, her nose was going to start to drip onto her legs but she really didn't care. Then she heard/felt a familiar scramble—

Kim raised her head to look at the Naked Mole Rat standing on her shoulder—

Holding a tissue—

Kim managed a sad but loving little smile. "Thanks Rufus."

After taking care of the facet in the middle of her face, Kim resumed her pose as a miserable piece of humanity, talking quietly to the little figure.

"I should at least apologize . . . really apologize . . . to you for what I've done Rufus . . . I am sorry. And I know that Ron . . . and I know that he usually doesn't keep a grudge . . . but—" and Kim sighed putting her forehead back down onto her knees. "I should know better than to mess with a mans GWA."

The snort in her ear gave the redhead an estimate of the truth of that remark.

A deep shuddering breath went through her, causing a look of concern to come over Rufus's face. He gave a questioning 'huuummmmmm?"

"It's not as if Ron gets treated like a man Rufus," came Kim's voice out from within the confines of her knees/wrapped arms. The Mole Rat cocked his head the other way and made another inquiring sound. In a miserable voice, Kim said, "I'm not trying to be mean or nasty to you Rufus but I can't believe that . . . that _jerk_ Getty, could remember you as a 'very effective operative' one moment and then diss Ron the next! And I—and I—" Kim's voice caught and she couldn't speak for a moment.

Another 'snort' came from the Mole Rat eloquently expressing his opinion about this fact.

Then, out of the blue . . . in a tone which caused Rufus's eyes to come open in surprise—

Because Kim's tone was one of dread—

"What happens . . . tomorrow Rufus? What happens when . . . the other shoe falls and Ron finds out the 'other real true' reason why I wanted to come on this mission?"

Rufus's face went perplexed and he made another inquiring sound

But Kim didn't respond to the inquiry. She just pulled herself into a tighter little ball and said very sadly, "Ron's going to be . . . . . . and he'll have every right to be . . . . . . "

Silence and stillness prevailed as Kim wallowed in her misery. Rufus tried unsuccessfully to puzzle out her meaning, but there wasn't enough information for him to process and he refused to bruise his brain about things like that. There was one thing that he did know however and at this moment, he had to let his other human know—

"He luvs u!" and there was absolute conviction in the little guys voice. As was there when he added, "u luv him."

There was a long moment of silence/stillness again, then Kim managed to raise her head where the little guy could see in the dim light, just the slightest of smiles.

"I know he does," Kim replied. "And he has for so long in one way or another—"

But then Kim's face slowly fell, her eyes closing . . . as she added in a tone of self reproach, "but do I deserve that love Rufus after what I've done and what's going to be done? And do I deserve that love if I can't say it . . . if I can't say to him that I lo . . . " Her eyes closed in pain—

For the moment . . . the Mole Rat didn't have an answer . . . for he wasn't sure if there was one. So he did the only thing he could do. Kim's eyes came back open when Rufus hugged the side of her head in wordless support—

A long moment passed as Kim . . . it wasn't that she couldn't say what she was thinking. It was that she, _she_ . . . was afraid too—

But she had too, she had to know—

"Will he still love me after this Rufus? Will he when he realizes just how badly I've treated him? And with what happens tomorrow . . .despite it all, I'm excited about it . . . and that wrong and that's bad and I just shouldn't . . . but . . . I am—"

Rufus could only give her a helpless shrug of no information.

Kim slowly turned over and lay down on the bed, emotional exhaustion finally taking over—

She did not expect good dreams.

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A/N: I must admit that the number of suggestions as to plot, direction and character interaction in regards to this story has been amazing (and a little mind boggling). I want to reassure everyone that there is a 'plot' and thought to this. As with anything I do, the story has a definite beginning and end (the middle is subject to interpretation). At the same time, all my stories are a part of some kind of continuing 'arc' (watched to much 'Hill Street Blues' where the style of spreading stories across multiple episodes started I guess), so this one starts another that will be carried on (although unlike WSCS this story has a definitive ending, only a concept will be carried on). All the suggestions that have been sent to me are more than welcome. Some sent during WSCS made definite changes in that story. I just don't want anyone disappointed if what they send is not adopted.

So in regards to the enthusiasm that has been displayed by the readers of this story, I am humbled and grateful for the attention. I hope it continues to be worthy of being read and enjoyed.

The Wise Duck


	4. The Truth Be Known

Ron woke very early having slept the sleep of the dead but with his bodily functions still slaved to Middleton time. Which meant that he had to slip into the bathroom in Kim's room. This made him pause . . . which . . . made him pause. Normally when in mission mode, he and Kim were totally cool with each other as to taking care of business in a professional way with no thought of any attempts to violate each others privacy or exploiting an opportunity that might present itself.

But right now Kim . . . his love . . . was acting . . . really weird. Acting in a way he hadn't seen since she had had that really bad crush on Josh Mankey. What bothered Ron was that he couldn't figure out the source of her 'crush'. _Sure, you know that Kim is fascinated and at times fixated on fashion and clothes, _he reminded himself as he once again tried to puzzle it out. _But this boarders on . . . I don't know . . . an all consuming . . . . . . crush! There has to be something else, something she hasn't . . . I know that there's something that she hasn't told me. Could it be these 'precious items' that Grippe brought her to guard? Think Ron, during those fashion shows you watched, what did you see that could do this to her?_ Once again he had to shake his head as nothing came to him_. All you saw was diamonds and jewelry and really weird hats . . . that's what they normally threw all over the models and Kim's . . . just not into that stuff. It has to be something else . . . but what?_

None of this changed with what Ron had to do at the moment. He got up, casting a look around for Rufus that came up negative. It didn't concern him, he trusted his friend—

Plus at the moment, his mind was on other things.

_Yeah, you're cranked Ron. Kim . . . arranging this whole thing without giving details, fouling up The Big Night. But you know her . . . something is driving her to do this other than her dislike of wrestling or spending an evening with her brothers. Whatever it is, yeah, she may have seen an opportunity to get out of The Big Night and she may have had me come along to get 'payback' because I was trying so hard to get her to go . . . that's an area that she definitely needs to loosen up in . . . but she's . . . fixated on this thing whatever it is. I can tell . . . just as I can tell that despite it all, she's really really upset at herself for doing all of this to me._

Ron reached the door to Kim's room and quietly pushed it open. What he saw more than confirmed the thoughts that he just had. _So you're here buddy_ Ron thought. And through that unique Mystical Monkey Power link they shared, Rufus woke up and his head swiveled until his eyes met those of his person, his eyes telling Ron enough to know—

_I know she's hurting . . . I know she's sorry, I know that something is making her do this. It's part of her driving/driven personality. I understand that . . . I accept that . . . I don't like it sometimes. . . it hurts . . . but to be honest, I'm use to people stepping on me so it's no big. At least with KP, I know that under it all . . . she loves me . . . and that at some point she'll really apologize . . . and that's enough for me. I love her, I'll die for her, if she needs someone for a punching bag or to walk all over, I'll be there in a second . . . because I _know_ she loves me more than anything else. I can feel it . . . even if she can't say it._

Ron suppressed a sigh, then slipped in toward the bathroom. When he was finished, he lingered a moment longer looking at the still form in the bed. _One of these days . . . something really important, really significant . . . is going to happen between the two of us. It's gonna be something that one of us wants and the other wont give . . . and at that point . . . I'll stand up to her. In the end, we've never let each other down . . . and as mad and as hurt and as disappointed as I am, I know and understand and accept her for exactly what she is . . . because she has always known and accepted, even if at times she _didn't_ understand me for exactly what I am._

Ron resisted going over to give the sleeping form a kiss or caress, just as he had when Kim had fallen asleep on the couch. He was still angry and hurt. He didn't like or condone what Kim had done, and not doing the 'little boyfriend things' was his was of letting her know. Because he also knew, that whatever it was that this crazy mission developed into, when the time came, he would be watching her back just as he always would—

And that would let her know as it always had, just how he truly felt for her.

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Breakfast started out to be as uncomfortable as dinner had been to the point that both teens were unable to look at each other . . . and they didn't have to be looking at each other . . . because they knew each other without having to look at each other—

"Ron," Kim finally had to put a hand to her forehead due to the pressure, "I—guess I—Ron . . . "

Ron didn't look up at her from the far end of the table, a clear sign to her of his discomfort, "Kim," but he made a real effort to make his voice at least sound light and normal. "I know that things are still uncomfortable—"

"That's just it Ron," and Kim sounded miserable. "There's something else that you don't know about yet. Something that I . . . " and if possible, her tone got even more miserable, "really should apologize . . . really apologize for . . . I need to apologize . . . because it's for something . . . it's the _real_ reason why I wanted to come on this mission . . . other than tanking your GWA party—"

Ron's head now came up, and she saw that he had in fact been waiting for this moment for there wasn't disbelief or denial in his eyes, instead there was confirmation and hurt—

Which confirmed to Kim that Ron had guessed what she had really done—

Which made her hurt inside even more—

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"You . . . weren't kidding—" Ron muttered, staring with a look that now held disbelief and denial—

"I said I'm sorry," Kim was at his side, head bowed, hands clasped behind her back in (now that ALL the truth be know) total and complete mortified embarrassment now that the 'truth' was out, now that her childish secret stood revealed before all to see, 'really, really sorry."

They were standing just inside of the big room where 'The Runway' was. Technicians were frantically working on lights, lighting, cameras, microphones even as the models . . . who would have normally held young Ron's undivided attention, practiced their walks and turns on The Runway, practice necessary because of the various things they had perched precariously on various parts of their bodies—

Teddy Bears, stuffed dinosaurs, a whole menagerie of children's beds pets. The models were working especially on their pauses and turns to ensure that the 'extra cargo' wasn't dislodged or cast away by sudden movement because this was practice, rehearsal, made all the more necessary because—

"So . . . " and Ron's tone . . . really didn't sound like Ron, "we're not really here to guard . . . the fancy new Italian Designer clothes—"

"Well, we are . . . kinda," Kim hemmed—

"We're not here to project the precious loaned-from- their-very-rich-owners diamonds and jewels—"

"Well . . . we are . . . sorta," Kim hawed—

"We're here to guard . . . you accepted this mission because . . . I'm going to loose out my first ever GWA party at my own house because of—"

"Ron, their VERY valuable—"

"Cuddle Buddies!" and Ron's whisper sounded like a shout. "The models are going to be wearing Cuddle Buddies! That's why they're practicing with teddy bears—"

"Ron" and Kim was desperately trying to sound reasonable and persuasive and . . . not childishly immature, "their not just Cuddle Buddies, they're the _rarest_ of Cuddle Buddies! Every single one of them is a prototype or a special edition in which only one or two, three at the most were made! They're even rarer that the Flamingoat that I saw at Mr. Paisley's on our first mission. Their going to be all here together, gathered from their owners and collectors from all around the world. It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing! And they need to be guarded. Their literally _priceless_!"

Ron was completely silent . . . which upset Kim even more because of the tearing inside of herself at how she could be so defiant over tanking the GWA party and yet be so completely embarrassed and mortified just because the _real_ reason that she had accepted the mission was because of girlish infatuation with a line of children's plush toys! She needed Ron to turn to her, glare at her, yell at her, do his whole throw-the-entire-body-wildly-around-in-abject-misery dance with _her_ as being the sole reason behind it—

Kim Possible, she who had repeatedly saved the world from a multitude of supervillians and incredible plots, braced herself, holding her breath, actually both fearing the impending explosion and opening her mental arms to embrace it for she deserved no less—

But there was no explosion. Ron just shook his head slightly, kind of drooped his shoulders into a dejected slump and said very, very softly, "at least now I understand what brought this on."

Kim turned . . . she _stared_at Ron, incapable of believing/understanding what she thought she had just heard.

"And," Ron continued, his voice low and sad but at the same time understanding, "that would be another reason why it was better for you to be in the backstage dressing area rather than up above The Runway. You would be able to get right next to them . . . see them right up close and personal . . . which is something you couldn't have done from up in the scaffolding."

Kim wanted to gape at Ron, amazed despite herself of his sudden understanding . . . but she snapped her face away from him, the guilt and shame swelling in her, the anger that Ron _wasn't_ going to explode at her rising right behind it.

"Ron—" she started . . . and stopped . . . for she had _nuthin_ in her at this moment to even try and get by what she was feeling—

"Aw, there you are—"

Kim snapped her head even further around, startled right through but instantly locking her insides down tight as the short figure of Han Grippe was suddenly there next to her (_the man moves like a cat_ she thought). She opened her mouth to reply, desperately trying to come up with something, certain that if she didn't, this security chief who was obviously more than he seemed might pick up on the discord between the two teens—

Fortunately, Grippe beat her to it. "You two," he said with satisfaction, "must have gotten a clue as to the plan as I see that young Ronald is diligently studying his area of operation."

Kim . . . for one of the few times in her life had her brain jam into neutral. She tried to step back, regroup and—

"I'm sorry Han—" Ron's voice, so . . . normal . . . so everyday . . . came past Kim's ears . . . "I'm afraid that we're just sightseeing. My girlfriend here was pointing out a few things that I wasn't aware of." Each one of Ron's words was like a kick in the small of her back, the heaviest blow was 'girlfriend', said so normally and naturally . . . but with an undercurrent only she could understand for this was Ron and he was _not_ happy with her. Kim bit her lower lip _hard_, trying to get her mental feet under her.

But Grippe, in response to Ron's words had slipped past her, up next to her boyfriend, pulling him wayyyyy down with one hand in order to say things in low tones into Ron's ear while the other hand waved and pointed and directed at The Runway.

Kim could see Ron suddenly shake his head in his trademark 'clearing the fogged brain' shimmy before he said something back to Grippe. Kim stepped back, crossing her arms, greatly relieved that it was giving her the opportunity to get her head back into the game (as well as she could at least considering the circumstances). She firmly forced down all her anxiety and all the other emotions, worked at getting herself in hand—

Then Ron suddenly bolted upright out of the smaller mans grip, whirling around on his girlfriend, all of his anger/disillusionment/sense of betrayal having evaporated the moment he understood that Grippe wanted him too—

"KP," and his voice was electric, "I get to actually escort the models as they walk down the . . . " then Ron's face clouded over as Kim's eyes went wide, Ron's thoughts only then catching up with the reality of just what was going on—

And what his girlfriend would think about it—

Then Ron's gaze at her suddenly narrowed, causing a lump to come into Kim's throat, for Ron had plainly rethought what it was that he had been thinking about—

And he was daring Kim to object—

And Kim didn't know what to think about it . . . and she knew totally that there was nothing she could say. She was on the brink of disaster as far as her relationship with Ron was concerned. She had recovered enough of her mental grip to know that . . . and to know as well that she couldn't push anything at the moment.

But at the same time, she was still the 'leader' when it came to missions, however little both she and Ron might think about her ability to accomplish that at this time . . . but it was there, and she had to consider what could happen with Ron within arms distance of high-class fashion models wearing thousands of dollars worth of clothing and jewelry and Cuddle Buddies. Kim looked at Grippe with an expression pleading for an explanation (pleading to God and fate that that was all that Grippe saw in her face)!

"Oh," the security chief smiled, apparently having totally missed the tension between the two teens (or choosing to ignore it), he waved his hand toward a group of young men sprawled in the seats around The Runway, "Ronald will be joining those lads there. They will all be working in rotation assisting the models who will need such assistance due to long trains or twelve-inch platform shoes and such. Ronald will be in their queue and the models with the 'precious items' will be cycled through so that he is always paired with one of them. That way he is always close and prepared to act if something untoward should occur."

Kim's tried to ignore Ron's still piercing gaze, but she was forced to say, "Han, I'm not sure if having Ron out in plain sight like that is a good idea—"

"But he wont be," was the reply that brought both teens eyes to the small security expert.

A few minutes later, a most defiantly serious faced Ron Stoppable looked out . . . in fact, only his serious face looked out, for the rest of him was totally inside—

Kim _knew_ that any other time or under other circumstances, she would be smiling or even letting out with a little giggle. Now she kept her face straight and professional. She did make an attempt to lighten the mood by saying, "it's not so bad Ron. After all, you were able to wear the pickle suit for the Middleton Days okay. And the horse costume from all the Halloweens . . . "

All that got her was a raised eyebrow. For Ron's face was for all intensive purposes, the 'Joey' face sticking out of 'the pouch' of a giant Pandaroo costume. It seemed that all of the escorts for the models would be dressed in something appropriate to highlight the particular type of model they would be escorting. As Ron was escorting the Cuddle Buddies, he was dressed as one.

Ron then said, in a flat tone, "I'm going to be waddling in this so I can't move fast; I can't turn my head much so I can't see around me, how can I protect someone if something happens?"

"You fall on them," was Grippes half humorous statement as he walked around from behind Ron where he had been checking the details of the costume. "If something should happen, you simply pull the model whose hand you will be holding down under you as you go down on top of her. Simple and effective and bizarre enough that no one should see it coming. With you covering the model and the 'precious item', it should throw anyone off long enough for all the other security around the perimeter of the room and in the overhead to react. If for some reason you can not get the model to go down, you are to 'tackle' the 'precious item' with the same result."

Grippe now stood before the two teens, all seriousness with hands on hips. "This means that the only 'critical time' will be right at the end of the show, when all the models are out on The Runway at the same time. We will make sure that the models with the 'precious items' are all at the rear of the group as close to the curtains as possible. Kimberly and my security forces will be on the other side of those curtains instantly ready to respond if it becomes necessary."

"It's not very nice to just fall on girls," Ron muttered.

One of Grippes eyebrows rose in a challenging way. "Are you not a professional in your work young Stoppable?"

Even to Kim that felt like a slap in the face. Despite everything else, in automatic reaction she started to open her mouth to defend her boyfriend—and closed it just as quickly forcing herself to again mentally step back knowing just how deep she was in it with that same boyfriend and not wanting to go any farther by putting a second foot to join the first one she already had in her mouth.

"I—am," she heard Ron's hard tones from beside her. Inside, part of her was instantly grateful that she had allowed Ron to stand up for himself. Right now, he needed all the chances he could get to control his own fate after how badly she had screwed up everything else. She was also glad to see Grippe then give Ron a satisfied nod of acknowledgement. Grippe than gave her a separate nod before turning and heading off.

To call the following moment of frozen silence awkward was the understatement of the year. It took Kim all of that long moment to gather the courage to say, "I'm . . . I'm sorry Ron," Kim felt that the words were trite and completely inadequate but they were all she had for at this point she really, really meant it. "This whole thing has been really more than hard on you and completely unfair and it's all my fault."

There was another very long moment of silence. Then Kim heard Ron sigh, followed by, "it's cool KP. I know that this part of it isn't anything of your doing. It's just that . . . I was hoping that whatever I did was going to be a little less . . . "

"Sidekickish," she finished the thought for him. She turned to him, acting on the impulse of complete guilt, taking his face in both of her hands, eternally grateful that he didn't flinch or shy away from her touch. "I'm not happy either Ron, and I'm sorry and I'm sooo busted because of this whole thing and you have every right to . . . " she made herself stop, got a grip, and then managed in a more level voice, "but his plan does makes sense."

Ron snorted unhappily. "It's not a problem Kim. Even if this was a normal mission, (she winced as the hit struck home) it's not as if I really would be guarding the dressing room. I'm okay being stuck with this."

Kim Possible just looked into Ron Stoppable's face, hearing all the things that he had left unsaid. Her mind flailed about, trying to come up with something . . . anything to say to let him know just how far out this mission was going from anything she would have thought possible. "Ron—" was all she managed to get out.

"Kim," was Ron's reply, causing her to wince yet again for she knew with Ron's last two voicings, which used her name rather than his normal 'KP', indicated better than anything else could, just how angry and upset he was even if he was refusing to show it, "you said that this Cuddle Buddy sitch was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. That's . . . enough to make it important to you. That makes it . . . important to me."

Kim felt herself . . . sag inside. If Ron had been deliberately talking to her like this to intentionally hurt/humiliate/haunt her, she would gratefully accept it as such because she deserved every moment of it. But Ron wasn't, he didn't do things like that. She knew that he really meant every word—

And that made it hurt/humiliate/haunt her even more.

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The secure phone rang—

"Yes?" asked a high squeaky voice.

"No changes," came a voice that was huge despite the fact that it was attempting to whisper. "Stoppable will be on The Runway but his instructions will not interfere with any of the plans already in place."

"Good," replied the squeaky voice. "That may be an advantage as well. With his ability to create chaos, he may well assist us without even knowing it. In which case, Team Possible may just get more than a little of the blame when we succeed."

"Indeed," was the terse agreement—

And the secure line went dead.

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A/N: I wanted to be nice and get the other shoe dropped. Hopefully some questions have been answered. Now I can concentrate on where I'm currently working (chapter 12) without the distraction of knowing that I was being cruel and leaving people hanging. So I hope that everyone has a very happy and safe 4th of July. As it is a four-day weekend for me, I hope to get some substantial work done.

And to all my brothers and sisters who have served in the Armed Forces fighting for freedom at some time and some place—all my best wishes.

I Will Remain As Always

Your Humble And Devoted Servant

The Wise Duck


	5. The Main Event

Kim Possible was use to routinely doing the impossible. It was something that she had come to expect in herself. It was something that she took pride in excelling at. It was something that to a certain extent, she had come to be able to do without giving it a conscious thought—

And for the first time in her life, certain parts of her mind and heart and soul, were doing just exactly that, with very heavy emphasis on the 'no conscious thought' part. She was managing to do it only under the intense pressure of a cloak of guilt unlike anything she had ever known before. After a dreadfully silent lunch with her boyfriend during which she could have sworn an artic ice storm continually blew across her, she had helped Ron get back into the Pandaroo suit prior to taking up her own station in the backstage dressing area. It was at that point that she did the oh so impossible feat. Knowing just how badly she had hurt her BestFriend/Boyfriend and had maliciously played havoc with their budding relationship beyond friendship, acknowledging just how much she had wrecked, not only his but a large portion of her only close friends long in place plans, knowing how she was trashing her own self esteem and confidence in her own ability to put others ahead when the sitch required, she shoved it _all_ back into the corners of her mind/heart/soul with ruthlessness and a callous disregard for anything past 'right now'. She was determined to at least make all the pain and wreckage of her childish craving worthwhile by enjoying, by embracing, by shamelessly wallowing in her once-in-a-lifetime event.

So Kim felt her level of excitement rise. She kept telling herself that she was merely reflecting the energetic madness that was rising about her but she knew that she wasn't being truthful. And there was so much 'truth' that she was going to have to work on . . . and be accountable for when this was over.

But at the moment, she was so into the mindset of 'here and now'!

_Monique is going to be sooo cranked at me_ was the thought that came to her with a dual tone of both self-serving glee as well as more than a little worry and dread. Despite how hard she was trying to suppress it all, her inane sense of right kept forcing thoughts like this up into her 'now'. In this case Kim; just as she hadn't really truly considered (or had intentionally tried to suppress) Ron's anger and resentment over the loss of his GWA night, knew equally as well that her best friend was going to be much more than majorly flamed out by _everything_ Kim had done. Now while Ron thought that Mo was going to be more ticked by what Kim had done to the GWA night, Kim knew that the fact that she had personally been able to be THERE when the latest in fashions was debuted in Milan Italy!! was going to be the bigger bombshell for Kim _knew_ where Monique's _true_ interests lay—

For in the last hour since assuming her station in the huge chaotic backstage area, part of her brain that wasn't locked in the guilty war with her conscious had wanted to boggle as she viewed so many creations that just left her mentally drooling (and loudly mentally complaining that she had to get a job! Babysitting was in no way going to be able to afford _any_ of what she was seeing).

It was also interesting that there was another, totally separate thought bouncing in and out of Kim's brain. _To bad that Bonnie's out of action. She would absolutely DIE if she had any idea that I was here . . . _This thought caused its own little ripple in Kim's brain . . . for there was a part of her that still wondered if there was some obscure reason that she might be at least partially responsible for Bonnie's breakdown—

Kim drew her brain back to the moment as someone started to shout, "two minutes! Two minutes everybody!"

On that cue, the heavy door next to her opened and a phalanx of big, burly, heavily armed men in security uniforms slid in. A group of four led the way, hands resting lightly on weapons butts, eyes sweeping and identifying everything in their field of responsibility. Following them came groups of pairs, each pair holding heavy looking black armored boxes between them—

Kim, at the sight of those boxes, instantly forgot that to-die-for set of Capri's she had just been watching a skinny platinum blond put on and felt both her heart and her lungs stop—

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Ron felt as if his heart and lungs wanted to stop. For over an hour now, he had been standing motionless with the other 'lads' around the perimeter of The Runway. He truly believed that he had sweated all of the fluid out of his system under the intense heart of the floodlights, the sweat running down his back had caused an itch that didn't want to go away and he fervidly wished that he hadn't drank those six soda's during the quick lunch that he and Kim had before assuming their stations.

The time to the start was hopefully close now as almost all of the seats were full in the audience. He wanted to look around, but Grippes comment about his 'professionalism' had struck a cord making Ron's will that of iron as he ignored that desire along with wanting to shuffle his feet, twiddle his thumbs (not that he could get his hands together in front of him to accomplish that thanks to the 'Joey's' bulky 'arms' sticking out of the pouch of the costume), or whistle with boredom.

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The head of the security section in the overhead scaffolding didn't quite know what to think. Sure, he had read about them in the press from time to time but even then he hadn't paid much attention. But now, as he roamed among his people, he couldn't help but constantly glance at the little pink figure atop of the center railing right above the end of The Runway. The fiercely clawed little hands were holding tiny binoculars and diligently scanning not The Runway . . . but the doors and the corners and those who might look suspicious . . . just as his own highly trained people were—

_A real professional there_ he thought. _Even if it is a . . . naked . . . whatchamacallit_

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Hannibal Grippe sat in his chair in the back of the security office, seemingly at ease, years of authority allowing him to conceal his nervousness at what was about to happen. He could only hope that everything went according to plan.

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"Oohhhhhhhh!!" The soft exclamation escaped from Kim's lips as the exceptionally rare Foxgull was taken out of the armored case and passed over to the handler to be placed on the model. Of course seeing the only known KittyBear up close and personal had made all the bad and everything that had, was and was going to worth it (at least while she was in the moment and able convince herself of that fact). Kim also knew that she had lost all professional detachment and was hopelessly enmeshed in what was before her rather than concentration on her job as guardian, but in this case she didn't care. Every single new Buddy had elicited the same thought _now my life is complete!_ from a brain that had turned totally to mush. Kim knew that she was also trusting Grippe's assurance that the threat level was low. It didn't even register to her that a whole section of the guards and cases were reserved for the priceless diamonds and jewels that were on loan to the show from their owners and that they probably should have been guarded much more closer than the Cuddle Buddies.

But what did Kim Possible care for about something as everyday as priceless diamonds and jewels . . .

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Ron didn't think that he had any sweat left in him, but he was finding that he was wrong. If he had thought that the furnace like glare of the lights had been bad on the periphery, no way had he been prepared to be actually under their beating brilliance on The Runway itself. That, along with the fact that he was having to concentrate _very_ heavily on his balance as he 'escorted' his charges up and down had robbed him even the desire to take in the charms of the ladies in his care. Such was his concentration and his misery that he had to reserve himself a specific moment when he could chance lessening his concentration for any other thoughts. Those moments were the times when he hadn't started a new escort but had had the time to somewhat recover from the prior one, an act which consisted of trying to recover his breath while leaning heavily into the wall next to The Runways portal at the back.

And the singular consistent thoughts that he was able to have at those moments—

_This TANKS!_

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Rufus dropped his surveillance glasses and tried to concentrate. Something . . . new was going across his senses . . . his senses . . . he could . . . could he?

Yes . . . there was something . . . both his hearing and . . . he could . . . smell—?"

He looked around. Whatever it was was too nebulous for him to even confirm that it was bothering him let alone identify a where and a how. But all his time as his person's ace-in-the-hole backup had taught him to trust his animal instincts.

Now . . . what did he do about it?

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"Two minutes to finale!" called the liaison monitoring the show director's actions. When there was no response, he looked around—

Chief of Security Grippe's seat was empty—

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Kim was attempting to get her head back into the game. The big staging area right behind The Runway was a mass of frantic humanity as everything was readied for the final mass procession. All of the armored cases were open and a pair of security officers were standing around each model in possession of a Cuddle Buddy, heads on swivels, expressions plainly urging things to go faster so they could rescue their 'precious items' get them back into the cases and be done with it.

At the moment, Kim was actually standing on top of one of the makeup counters along the rear wall in order to get as good an overlook as she could. She was trying so hard to keep her eyes sweeping for danger when the fact was that all she really wanted to do was gaze again at that PuppySeal or get a last stare at Coco Banana's tube top/shorts outfit (all the while imagining herself in them at the beach with Ron beside her and Bonnie drooling).

Kim snapped herself back to reality once again as it seemed _every_ voice in the room hissed "go-go-go" and the mingled mass started to shove their way through to the erupting applause out in the audience.

Kim felt her tenseness wane as the room emptied. It wasn't that her responsibilities were over; it was just that now she knew that the bill on the credit card was going to have to be paid shortly. She and Ron were supposed to stay another night for the expos second day tomorrow, continuing to guard the clothing and jewels . . . but the Cuddle Buddies she had found out from the managers in the staging area were for this show only. With the Cuddle Buddies gone . . . her heart would no longer be as into it despite being able to see additional new fashions. Which meant that she would have to start to anticipate the hell to pay from her wallowing in her childish fixation and totally unacceptable behavior towards the young man she was suppose to lo—

Then all the lights went out!

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Ron didn't have to react. The scream from all the girls when the lights went out startled him so badly that he tried to jump out of his skin . . . even while being encased in a totally suffocating 'second skin' which was the Pandaroo costume. He immediately overbalanced and as he was right on the edge of The Runway, moving to be in front of all 'his ladies', the overbalance was fatal, causing him to fall backwards in the big Pandaroo suit . . . onto those that were left of the other male escorts who had been spaced along the floor alongside of The Runway, them spilling in turn, onto the closest people seated in the audience, whose screams only added to the din.

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Pandemonium reigned in security control. The head tech looked about for orders—

Security Chief Grippe was missing from his chair . . . and Assistant Chief Getty had not been seen since earlier—

"No back-up power!" one tech yelled, "the battery units aren't working either," another shouted.

"Order all exits sealed," the head tech called as he turned back to his own inoperative panel.

"Communications are being jammed," that tech grated.

Italians are noted for their historically instinctive ability to damn and curse. The head tech now allowed himself an especially creative opportunity to do so.

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Rufus held onto the railing as it shook and swayed with all the security men running around like ant from a kicked anthill. They were trying to plug in backup lights or locate the ladders down. It seemed that none of them had light sources of their own and chaos and collisions abounded.

Rufus didn't need a light however. His senses told him what was happening, but everyone else needed light—

He would have to try to give it to them.

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Kim was trying very hard not to curse herself as she leapt bodily all the way across the staging room. Because of several candles located around the room; meant to throw a fresh scent into the fog of sweat, makeup, hairspray and perfume, there was enough dim, shimmering light to at least identify shapes and movement. The main impression of movement was at the exits around the room where staff was fleeing in terror, and at the portal to The Runway, where the supervisors for the staff from the staging room, along with the designers themselves who had been just about to make their own entrance onto The Runway, were now attempting to get out through the portal while those on The Runway who were close to the portal and still on their feet tried to come back in through at the same time, trying to get away from the screaming of the audience and models who had fallen or become entangled in whatever.

As Kim leapt from table top to across a chair back to a storage case to over a mobile rack, she saw through the corner of one eye, a woman she had learned was the assistant coordinator of the staging area, dashing about, ripping the most important or valuable clothing off of racks as if she was attempting to save them. Kim left the woman to her job as she encountered the solid wall of the security officers, feet short of the portal, who were trying to jam through over that backs and bodies of all the others.

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Ron's combined attempts to pull himself out of the dog pile of his creation and get himself free of the Pandaroo costume only managed to roll himself off of the apron of The Runway and down into the audience itself.

It was only now that he thought that he should be thankful for the costume . . . for it somewhat protected him from the stampede of trampling feet as he was heedlessly and repeatedly run over (in all directions it seemed) by yelling/screaming voices, most of which he couldn't understand.

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By sound and smell, Rufus had located one of the main lighting junction boxes. There was no light available to pick and choose what he was working on . . . he just had to trust to his unique senses and the luck of his person.

He hoped it was enough.

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Kim could not get close to the portal let alone get through it. She couldn't even go over the top on them; the mass of security bodies had just jammed the whole thing tight. She would have to go around.

Kim spun about and started to sprint, jump and leap through the unbelievable obstacle course toward one of the side doors that would lead her to the backside doors of the auditorium. She passed a rack of clothing that she suddenly recognized as belonging to Coco Banana—

Kim stopped. She looked around and saw that only the assistant coordinator was still working at trying to secure the valuable clothing.

Strictly reacting to impulse, Kim grabbed the entire contents of the Club Banana rack and bounced across the room toward the woman. The assistant looked up . . . startled and fearful of the strange shape that bounded out of the shadows.

"Quick, where can I put these?!" Kim ordered.

The assistant looked shocked-startled and froze for a second. Then she mutely pointed to the big crate already on a pushpull that was almost full. Kim winced at the thought of all this creative material just being dumped into a crate . . . but it was better that what might happen. Kim threw her load in, helped the assistant get the lid on.

The woman grabbed the pushpull without a word and started out toward the docks even as Kim leapt back toward the side doors.

As she did so, there was a bright FLASH/BANG from the main auditorium room, followed by renewed screams and yells. Then more FLASH/BANGS followed in a rapid but disjointed (like that of popping corn) succession of light and noise. The screams grew wilder—

Kim knew that she had to hurry.

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Rufus had gotten the power box open and was starting on the guts when 'something' brushed by him. His mind had enough time to register what had to be the beating of wings and the passing of an airborne body before the force of the sideswipe knocked him into the box—

A wire was yanked loose in doing so. As Rufus was in the insulated box, he passed through the resulting spectacle unharmed.

Which all things considered, saved his life.

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In a world like the inside of a mad strobe light, Ron managed to get to his hands and knees. Lights were blowing with the tinkling of falling glass and cries of pain from sparks and shards. In the intermittent bolts of illumination, he could see faint blurs shooting around in the air above The Runway. He could see the huddled figures on the models collapsed in a pile on The Runway. He could see a dark figure, in what Ron recognized as a stealth suit on the apron of The Runway, it's 'movement' between the flashes appearing as if it was carefully working its way methodically along the edge, reaching up into and grabbing at the heap of models as it went—

Ron lurched to his feet, pulling his arms inside as he frantically tried to reach through behind him to the Velcroed 'seal' at the back of the Pandaroo costume. But his balance was poor, the floor was littered with discarded coats/purses/bags (and some bodies), he tripped once again.

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By the time that Kim reached the 'stage' door that was around in the far side of the main auditorium room, the light explosions were coming to a halt. The center of the room around The Runway had been abandoned to the injured, most of the crowd having stampeded their way out through doors more felt than seen. There was one or two FLASH/BANGS as Kim came in . . . after that, she was confronted the darkness. After a moment, her hand went to her utility belt, pulling out Wade's miniature nightsun. She lit it, with it pointing at the exits so that the last of those fleeing had _some_ light to guide them. In the beam spillage, she started to survey the room, sizing up the sitch, looking for targets—

At that point; it felt like it was the size of a giant clam and it clamped on the hand holding her nightsun, it's illumination being engulfed—

She started to react despite being caught completely off guard when another huge . . . something, grabbed her arm/shoulder from behind—

The next thing she knew was that she was flying through the air.

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Suddenly, a noise so high pitched that it caused Rufus even in his semi-conscious state to lay his paws over his little ears sang through the room. As Rufus tried to clear his head, he heard a flurry of activity outside the power box . . . followed by a familiar metal noise that he knew all too well.

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Ron had had the wind knocked out of him, but that didn't stop him from feeling as if he had landed on a bucking bronco—_I'm on top of someone and their fighting to get out from underneath me and the Pandaroo costume_

Ron was instantly torn. Was he on top of the bad guy (or gal) who had appeared to be trying to take things from the pile of tangled models on The Runway or was he pinning down and smothering one of the rich and famous which had been in the audience. He had to make a decision!

He did! He worked to get to his feet, feeling the start/lurch of the person under him as they tried to get away—

That was enough for Ron, the fact that they, whomever there were, were trying so frantically to 'get away'. So Ron did what he had been told to do—

He fell back down on top of them—

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Kim tried desperately to keep her orientation despite the fact that she was tumbling through the darkness with no idea of which way she was heading, how high she was or where or on what she was going to land. She couldn't draw and fire her hairdryer because she didn't have any idea where to aim it! The mighty jerk which had sent her flying (as well as making her arm feel as if it had been yanked out of its socket) has caused her to leave the nightsun behind in whatever had engulfed her hand robbing her of that source of light. She knew that she had to be only moments away from impact with _something_!

She did have enough time for the thought—_this is gonna hur—_

She was _not_ prepared for a mid-air collision.

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. . . . . . . K . . . . . . you . . . . . . m . . . . . .

_My head hurts!!_

. . . . . . . K . . . . . . you h . . . . . . . . . . . .

_In fact—a lot of things hurt!!_

. . . . . . . . P can . . . . . . hear . . . . . . . . .

_A . . . lot of things—_

. . . . . . KP, can . . . . hear . . .

_Is that . . . Ron? Why does he sound so far away?_

. . . . . . . . can you hear . . . . . .

_That IS Ron! What's the matter with me, I have to—_

And Kim forced herself up through the foggy abyss until she was able to hear—

"KP, can you hear me?"

Kim managed to crack one eye open just a little, enough to see the blurry but recognizable face of Ron hovering closely over her, fear and worry filling his face. She could also just make out what appeared to be a blackened Rufus looking down on her as well from Ron's shoulder.

"Wha hapned?" she managed to whisper as she was able to bring a shaky hand up to

hold the side of her head.

"You . . . landed hard," Ron told her. His look and tone made it plain that the worry in his face and tone was directly linked to his concern and love of her. "Nothing looks like its broken but you might have hit the back of your head on a seat as you came down."

_Sounds like an understatement_ she said to herself as she tired to get her eyes to open wider. As she did so, she also managed a bit of a look around a bit (even though she had to wince through the pain). "Where are we?"

"We're locked in an office—" and Kim could now tell that this was the source of fear in Ron's look and tone. "Something about everything that just happened being our fault—"


	6. Many Mysteries

Ron's startling statement made Kim force life back into herself. She tried to sit up but almost didn't make it, things spinning dangerously through her ears even as Ron's arm went around her shoulders to steady her. Kim felt a little disorientation . . . and not just from her sudden vertigo. The sensation of Ron's physical contact only reinforced what she had already seen and heard regarding her BFBF's obvious concern and worry for her, something which after her terrible treatment of him—

So like everything else she had been dealing with recently, Kim shoved it aside, pressing on with the need of 'the now'. "Why are we . . . who thinks that we—?" was all she could manage however as she tried to sort it all while reaching up to rub both of her temples against the oncoming pain.

"I don't know, and no one will answer the door to tell me." Ron's tone was frightened and unsure (in other words, typically Ron).

Kim carefully tried to twist her head/neck around which brought great howls of protest from several of the parts connected in and about there. But at least nothing felt permanently damaged. Despite the grimace on her face, she was able to ask, "Han??"

"I don't know," and Ron's tone was even more worried. "I haven't seen or heard him since before the show."

"Then who—?" Kim started to try and stretch her back and shoulder muscles, a sudden major twinge cutting her question off.

"When the backup lights came on, Rufus and I saw you on the floor," and Ron's tone/face conveyed just how scared and worried he had been at that moment. "I was just trying to get you completely out of the piles of knocked over chairs you were tangled up in when Getty came along. He literally picked the two of us up, said something about how he had known 'it' all along and that we had 'done it' before he brought us to this office, dumped us in here and locked the door on the way out."

"What happened out in the hall?" Kim asked as things slowly started to come to a standstill. "Do you have any idea—?"

"Oh!" and now Ron was excited. "I caught one of them—and you'll never guess who it was!"

Shock and surprise was in Kim's face as she turned to look at her boyfriend. Fortunately, he didn't notice it.

"Ron—who—?"

"Falsetto Jones."

Kim's eyes wanted to bug out but that would hurt too much. "Ron—how—?"

Ron's features were still more concerned for her than triumphant toward his actions. "He was in a stealth suit, pawing through the heap of models on The Runway taking all the prime pieces of jewelry. I . . . " he suddenly sounded more than a little embarrassed about it, "I did what Han said to do. I fell on top of him. It sure did the job though cause Jones hit his head on the side of the stage and went out like a light."

Kim managed her first real smile in far to long, just the thought that Ron had managed to get Jones would count so much toward giving him a boost. With genuine gladness she said, "Ron—that's great—the Ron Factor strikes again."

Any further comment was put aside as the office door suddenly came open.

Anyone the size of Getty was imposing in the first place. But when he wore an expression of anger and frustration as he did now—

Kim managed to swing her legs off of the couch that Ron had placed her on in the corner of the small office. Even though she knew that she was in less than prime shape, she wasn't going to let this jerk intimidate her. At the same time, in a move that she did at almost an unconscious level, she gave Ron's trembling leg a reassuring squeeze. Getty then stood aside, allowing two other men to enter the room. One was very old, very tall and very, very thin, the other . . . 'normal' looking except for a long trench coat.

"Signorina Possible," the thin old man started in a very thick accent, with a tone, pose and look of infinite superiority over any and all. "I am Signor Hevia Descont, the manager of this center, one of the co-producers of the festival and the one in the end responsible for whatever happens in this building." Descont indicated the man next to him, his tone very much less than happy. "This is Inspector Polizia of the law enforcement authorities."

"Are we being held here for some reason?" Kim asked politely but firmly.

"No longer," Descont said, casting a 'strong/unhappy' eye at Polizia. "It was," he looked back at the two teens, giving them a slight (and reluctant) bow of apology, "well done initially as there was questions as to your conduct Signorina Possible—"

"My conduct?" Kim asked in a skeptical voice, one hand coming to her chest.

"Signorina Possible," if anything Polizia's accent was even thicker than Desconts but his expression/eyes were that of a totally professional lawman, a look that Kim and Ron knew well and could respond to. "Initial reviews of the video of the incident were hasty and considering the poor quality of the images in the almost non-existent light in the main staging area behind the portal, easily misunderstood (Polizia now cast a jaundiced eye at Getty). But considering the overall chaos of the entire event, I would hope that you would bear with us as we try to sort things out."

Kim and Ron looked at each other; both of them perplexed before Kim looked back and asked, "Just . . . what are we 'baring with'? Ron caught Jones. That's what the whole thing was about right? Jones was after all the diamonds and jewelry and that all happened around The Runway. What does that have to do with anything in the staging area where I was?"

Descont, in a tone which indicated that he was not totally convinced, "it was initially thought that you Signorina Possible, had a hand in the . . . removal of a substantial quantity of the best of the clothing that was being held in that staging area."

Kim blinked . . . several times . . . feeling Ron's questioning eyes (but she could also feel his love and support and not a trace that _he_ thought she had done anything wrong), then her eyes turned inwardly, her thoughts racing as she tried to figure out just what it was that they were talking about—

Then her head snapped up (something she immediately regretted although she was able to suppress the grimace that wanted to come from the abused neck muscle), "the clothing that I helped the assistant coordinator with? I thought that she was just gathering it to save it?"

"She . . . and the clothing . . . are both missing Signorina Possible." Polizia said pointedly.

Kim's mouth formed a huge 'O' as the inference hit—

"You can't think—" Ron started coming to his feet to protect/protest for her—

Polizia waved Ron off. "Her reputation protects her," he said with a grim smile. "and in all fairness, upon a most careful secondary review of the tape, it was determined that your young lady thought that she was helping the assistant save the fruits of the designers labors not . . . " and he closed the statement with an expressive shrug.

Kim's brows narrowed. "So you're saying . . . that while Jones was after the diamonds and jewelry, the assistant took all the hot clothing." She received nods from both Descont and Polizia. Then suddenly, one of Kim's eyebrows shot up and she—"and the Cuddle Buddies? Are they all—"

Polizia took one very long _slow_ breath. "That . . . is our greatest mystery."

"The Cuddle Buddies too?" Ron managed somehow to sound as horrified as Kim felt.

"What," Kim tried to ask for now her head was once again splitting, "does Mr. Grippe say about all of this?'

Now the looks confronting the two teens were downright grim.

"Our Chief of Security," Descont managed to say, _almost_ managing to convey that he really didn't believe the worst possible outcome was in fact the truth, "seems to have disappeared at the same time that all of this was occurring."

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Kim and Ron stood in the ruins of the main room looking at the disaster that had been The Runway and the seating area around it. Ron had already demonstrated where Jones had been as well as what the criminal had been doing. Ron then explained how his screaming at the top of his voice had finally brought security guards armed with flashlights.

Kim had carefully questioned him after that, finding that his backup had been from the officers assigned to protecting the heavy transport cases. It seemed that for some reason, _none_ of the security for the actual center, either on the floor of the main room or those up in the scaffolding had been carrying flashlights. This bothered her much, not believing that Grippe would have allowed such a lapse . . . but he wasn't around and she had the very firm impression that Getty was less than excited to answer any of _her _questions.

The current point was however, that the backstage officers had assisted Ron with the taking of Jones into custody. Ron plainly felt bad because he hadn't had any idea that Kim had been lying unconscious on the floor so close to where the same security officers had finally helped him to get out of the Pandaroo suit after Jones was taken away. Ron wasn't sure how much time had elapsed when emergency backup lighting was finally restored. At _that_ time, Rufus, who had returned to Ron's shoulder, smoking and blackened from his ordeal in the scaffolding power box, suddenly grabbed Ron's ear, frantically pointing back into the wreckage of the hall, causing Ron to look and see—

Kim was holding the Kimmunicator in her hand high and out in front of her as Wade ran a sensor scan. She was concentrating on the task, but in the back of her mind there was a huge sign of plain, unadulterated self-centered relief. Despite everything she had done to him, despite every way she had stood by seemingly unaffected when something had been done to him, all of Ron's reserve, anger and gruffness had disappeared the moment he had found that she had been hurt. Kim knew that this very action should have made her even more guilty, sorry and aware of just how devoted Ron was to her, but for the same reasons, her own guilt, humiliation and anxiety had been totally pushed to the rear of her mind by the oh so welcome necessities of the mission and the mystery it had turned into. Deep inside, she knew that it was a dodge, a copout, a case of lying to herself far worse than she had ever thought possible—

But it didn't matter. All she knew was at the moment, she was more than able to fool herself and at that same moment, that was fine with her. Even though, deep inside, a thought that she was cheapening Ron's unabashed love and concern for her by—

With a small shake of her head she managed to once again 'toss off' the thought. Finishing her scan, she said into the Kimmunicator, "anything?"

"Got nuthin," was the boy geniuses reply as he watched his side monitor, finger flying across the keyboard.

"Wade," Kim's fatigue, pain, hot-point emotions were all screaming inside her, begging to allow her to show if nothing else, some frustration at this point. But she had nailed a steel door onto that part of herself. She had too much to answer for already without spreading the unhappiness she had caused around to even more of her friends. So her tone was level and even, "all the models swore that something like a whole bunch of very large bats were flying around their heads in the darkness, plucking at them, managing to snatch the Cuddle Buddies right off of them despite the anchors. Rufus indicated that he 'smelled' some kind of weird scent and that there were ultra high-pitched signals of some kind. With his information, we were able to figure out that they went in and out through the air vents right next to the power box he was attempting to work on. So they had to be small, fast, able to fly and beyond that—able to fly in almost total darkness. What else could it have been?"

"I'm sorry Kim," and Wade _sounded _sorry, "but I've scanned for every known bat scent or trace that has ever been recorded and I'm coming up empty." Then Wade's brows knitted together, "but . . . "

"What Wade," Ron asked as he stood behind his girl, looking over her shoulder, gently working that shoulder with his hands trying to get some of the stiffness and pain to go away (Kim having to forcibly stifle the fresh guilt that his attention to her was causing).

"I've got . . . something . . . " Wade's concentration on the screen intensified, but so did an obvious look of frustration all his own. "There is a trace of . . . something, but I can't seem to identify it." He gave a jerky shake of his head. "Whatever it is, it's definitely nothing even close to bat."

Kim felt her shoulders sag despite Ron's ministrations. "Keep on it." she said, allowing her tone to tell Wade just how much she knew he was trying. She then added, "when you have time . . . can you do some additional background checks for me?"

"Already started on everybody whose anybody there," he said absently as he continued to work the screen beside him. Kim smiled at his anticipating her request. "I'm also doing an enhancement on the video from the staging area to confirm if the thief there is the assistant. And I'm working my way through all the video from The Runway looking for clues. I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

"Please and thank you and . . . as always you rock Wade."

The young black boy broke his eyes away from his work long enough to give Kim a very significant look out through the Kimmunicators monitor screen. "Better watch it with the rocks Kim. Monique has called me half a dozen times trying to find out if you've been in contact with me. Seems that Ron's dad told her just where and what you were actually doing. I think Monique was chewing rocks the last time she called."

Kim physically cringed, barely managing a closing smile at her friend before she shut the Kimmunicator off. After pocketing the device, she stood with hands on hips, biting her lower lip as she looked around and up—

"Ron, did Rufus say anything about how they got in and out of the air vents? The grates looked pretty sturdy."

Ron did an automatic glance at the cargo pocket on his pants that held his sleeping friend. "He was really beat up KP. If he had had any hair, it all would have been singed off in that power box. I know that something else caught his attention, but I wasn't able to get any specifics out of him." Ron then looked up at where Kim was looking. ""I'm trying to figure out how and why they would close the vent covers behind them when they left . . . and could a bat do that anyway?"

"They did it to cover their tracks," Kim said with certainty. "Part of this whole scheme I think was to make it as hard and as impossible as possible to figure out what all really happened. I mean; three targets, all incredibly valuable, all attacked from three different directions by three different methods." She shook her head in wonder. "They wanted to commit the perfect crime." She then . . . after a moments hesitation . . . cast an . . . uncomfortable glance at her boyfriend. "But thanks to you . . . at least one part of the whole rotten sitch got caught."

Ron blushed and kind of kicked at some of the debris on the floor. He opened his mouth to say something—

Kim reached hesitantly over to give her boyfriend's arm a squeeze. Between what had physically happened to her, the accusing glares and mutterings of Descont and Getty and her own current in-the-doghouse status with her BFBF, she was feeling downright hesitant about a lot of things. She tried to keep all that out of her voice as she told Ron as she gave him that squeeze, "You did good. Now what's say that you and I go have a little talk with Mr. Jones and see just what he can tell us about the other two sides of the triangle."

At that moment _all_ the lights went out again.

"Oh snap!" Kim grunted. "Now what?"

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"KP," and Ron's voice was filled with horror, "how—?"

Kim just shook her head, unable to give her boyfriend an answer.

They, along with a fair number of the staff that were still in the complex, were in the basement where a 'holding cell' left over from the days when the facility was something else, was standing open. They had been informed moments before that it had just a short time ago, contained one Falsetto Jones and it was standing open because—

Something had ripped the heavy solid steel door right off the hinges.

"Signorina Possible," Kim and Ron turned to find Inspector Polizia standing next to them. He gestured with his head for them to follow.

Back in the 'front' section of the basement maintenance area that fronted the hallway where the 'cell' had been placed, Polizia pointed at the service elevator. "The guard was sitting at the desk there (he shifted his pointing to the desk/chair next to the door they had just come through) when the lights went out. Using his flashlight, (Polizia made just the smallest hesitation at that word as if he too was having problems with the lack of flashlights among those in the main hall earlier) he went back to the holding cell to check on the prisoner—"

"Ahhhh, excuse me Mr. Inspector Sir—" Ron interrupted with a raised hand, "but why was Jones here instead of a police station?"

Polizia gave a nod, accepting the hit. "That was at the insistence of both Signor Descont and Signor Getty. They . . . were hoping that by keeping as much within this facility as possible, that they could reduce the rumors and speculation that are flying about in the press. Unfortunately the center and its board . . . which includes Signor Descont, they have . . . a considerable amount of influence—"

"So you were saying Inspector," Kim prompted, trying not to show any surprise at the fact that Ron had just asked what was going to be _her_ first question.

Polizia indicated back toward the service elevator. "It appears that something made its way down the shaft of the elevator to this level. The doors," and he stepped over, easily pulling the doors open showing the empty shaft, "were forced from inside and now can not be secured. This same 'something'—"

"Why do I like, so dislike, the way he keeps saying 'something'?" Ron whimpered. Even though Kim on the inside agreed with Ron's statement, she flicked a hand at him in a quelling gesture.

"Then," Polizia continued, "within the darkness that was not illuminated by the officers light, this same 'something' attacked the officer from the rear. All the officer remembers was that something very large seemed to grab him, sending him flying—" as he said this, he turned and gave Kim a 'significant' look, one she acknowledged having so recently experienced a similar sensation. Polizia then made a throwing away gesture, "you of course saw the door. The door itself is approximately 90 kilo's—"

"Oh," Ron sounded relieved, "that's not _that_ heavy."

"He said kilos Ron," Kim informed her boyfriend out of the side of her mouth. "That would make the door about 250 pounds _plus_ the strength needed to rip it off of the hinges."

"Okay, fear and worry back in place!"

"Ron—ssshhhhh!"

Polizia had gone on, "with the loss of power, all the other elevators were out and as the service corridor from this room had several workmen in it equipped with flashlights that saw nothing come out of this area, the only possible explanation is that after coming _down_ via the elevator shaft, our 'something', accompanied by the prisoner, had to have gone back _up_ the shaft."

"But how did he—" Kim started; looking into the shaft, pulling out her own recovered (and slightly battered) night sun to look up into its gloomy reaches. I don't see any—"

"The entire unit is torn apart for replacement," Polizia informed them. "Both the car itself and all cables and weights have been removed. The shaft effectively, is completely empty all the way to the top, which had been removed as well for the service."

"But I don't even see any service ladders," Kim noted as she flashed the beam around. "The shaft has to be twelve feet square. How could—" and she suddenly stopped, eyes flaring wide in disbelief as the beam found something near at hand.

"The breadth of the shaft," and Polizia nodded at her discovery even as he went on, "is indeed approximately 3.6 meters Signorina Possible. Far beyond the reach of any _normal_ person . . . but in this case—" and Polizia now reached in and placed his hand gently over the hand in which Kim was holding her night sun, twisting Kim's hand, the light beam obediently following to the other side of the shaft in order for her to see—

On both sides, in the brown/black dirty old grease on the vertical rails of the shaft, were what appeared to be . . . massive hand prints . . . placed as if someone . . . or 'something' had climbed upward using the opposite rails to accomplish that feat—

"In addition—" came Polizia's quiet voice from behind them, "we can only assume that the missing Mr. Jones either rode on or was carried upward by . . . whatever it was that broke in here."

Kim _heard_ Ron 'gulp'; something which at this moment was all too accurate portrayal of her own feelings—

She pulled out and activated the Kimmunicator again, "Wade, sorry to come back so soon but . . . "

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Kim sat on the edge of her bed in the suite, her two hands still working a towel through her hair to get at the last of the water from her shower. She had a robe on but prior to coming out of the bath, she had, with the help of Ron, examined her back and shoulders from her collision/landing, wincing at the thought of her moms comments when these bruises were displayed in the post mission check—

In addition . . . something had cut her in the back between her shoulder blades. Whatever it had been had actually cut through the fabric of her mission shirt, breaking the skin. But the cuts in her shirt were so small they had missed them until Ron had found the actual lacerations (which were almost superficial) on her back. The only explanation that they had been able to come up with was that whatever it had been that Kim had had the mid-air with, had had something sharp on it and that the damage/injuries had resulted simply from the impact and not an intentional action.

But at the moment, both her injuries and the activity of her hands in her hair where pushed aside, her mind chipping away at all of the events of an oohh so eventful day.

Jones and his rescuer had not been found—

Han Grippe was still missing as was the suspected assistant—

The uproar in the press/government/social circles over what had happened was starting to build (Kim couldn't possible understand how Descont had hoped to keep something like this quiet)—

Getty, now in charge of security was acting downright nasty, making snide comments, waving off her attempts to get information or assistance with their own investigation, implying to the rumor and gossip mills that almost everything that had happened was because Grippe had relied too heavily on her and Ron and because of the fact that Grippe was missing along with the assistant and the clothing and the Cuddle Buddies that she and Ron either had to be co-conspirators or clueless dupes—

Inspector Polizia, while courteous and professional, was certainly being . . . professional . . . and not sharing any clues that he might have uncovered with her and Ron—

Signor Descont was being . . . Kim had never encountered anyone capable of standing and doing _nothing_ and at the same time, conveying panic/anger/alarm/frustration/blame/scorn/superiority with so little as the slightest movement of an eyebrow . . . aimed directly at her and Ron—

Kim was . . . the decision to take this mission had become so much drama on oh so many levels.

Kim's mind came back to the present with the shutting off of the shower in the bathroom. Ron had come in after her, waiting in his usual, respectful, careful way for her to finish and make herself 'decent' before invading her space. There was still tension between them over this mission and her crude, selfish handing of it . . . and although neither would admit it, at the moment it lay curled between the two of them like a snake waiting to strike.

Kim folded her towels, then realized that she had left her brush on the dresser. She got up to get it, thinking once again, that despite it all, despite her own treatment of him, just how lucky she was to have Ron. Then . . . a movement caught her eye and she looked—


	7. Furry Feathers and Fingers Finding

It was more than a gloomy silence that accompanied breakfast that Sunday morning for the two teens. All the previous evening, Ron had been secretly harboring a hope that with the mission currently clueless due to lack of cooperation, that there might have been a chance; _if_ Wade could have gotten them a really fast ride, that he and Kim could have gotten back home for his GWA night. Considering the circumstances, he would have told Kim that in no way was she expected or required to attend, and that he would never place her in such a situation again. That way, he might have been late but at least he might have been to participate in _some_ of it—

But obviously. . . the thought had never occurred to Kim. She was locked in mission mode and for all of his love for her and his knowing and understanding of her love for him (even if she couldn't say it) he knew that not-so-little-little things like his Big Night took a distant back seat to the mission before her—

Even if she did owe him big time.

For like all other things, Ron recognized and understood his Kim, that this aspect of her personality would cause something like a quick dash home for his Big Night to not even register to her. The mission/mystery came first. It was like . . . doing all her homework at the first opportunity or volunteering/taking charge of a project that needed to be done or that no one else wanted to do. It was part of her . . . Kimness; she just did it, without hesitation, without thought—

And while these parts of her didn't normally bother Ron—

Usually—

What Ron didn't know was the fact was that a dash home for them _had_ occurred to Kim, and she knew that doing so would go oh so far in restoring some of what she had lost from her treatment of her BFBF. But she felt that she had to stay here, ready to respond when Wade found something or Polizia came back with some information or Grippe or the assistant was found. Despite her guilt and anxiety over Ron, Kim couldn't go home at this point . . . her reputation was at stake, the mission was unfinished, the bad guys and loot was still out there—

And she knew, even if Ron told her that she didn't have to, that her honor and integrity would force her to go with Ron to his Big Night and face Monique and Felix and the Tweebs—

Because of that . . . it hadn't happened.

So this morning Kim was finding that it was possible to experience more guilt than any other human was capable of without a gruesome death and this left her . . . unsettled to say the least. She concentrated therefore on the mystery before her—which in reality was completely wasted because she didn't have enough information—

And even through she was trying to deny the truth of what she was doing, deep inside she couldn't . . . so she felt even more guilty.

So they sat on opposite sides of the table with Rufus between them working on his own meal, the both of them looking at their plates, afraid to be the first to say or ask anything. The quiet knock on the door made them both jump.

Ron, ever the gentleman to his lady despite what other things he might feel at the moment, answered the door. Kim had turned around in her chair to look, coming to her feet when she saw who it was.

"Good morning Inspector."

Inspector Polizia stepped in through the open door, giving Ron a cursory nod as he went by (causing Kim to wince on the inside. The oh-not-so-subtle snub to her boyfriend would not improve his mood and at this point she _knew_ that she had to do something about it . . . and she didn't because she was in fact, becoming impaled on the blade of her own shameful conduct, causing her to become incapable about doing anything about it). Polizia focused on her however and without preamble started, "Signorina Possible, please forgive the early intrusion but a matter has caused us to encounter as you say, 'a wall of stone'. We were hoping that your special resources might grant us luck with this mystery."

Despite herself, a new clue/challenge caused Kim's eyes to light up (and all guilt or concern for Ron to get chucked right out of the window). "Of course Inspector, what's the sitch?"

The use of her personal slang caused a momentary 'quirk' in Polizia's eyes but it was gone in a moment. His hand went under his trench coat, pulling out a plastic bag.

"Several of these were found in and among the clothing and hair of the models attacked by the unknown flying entities on The Runway. Several others were found on the floor throughout the hall but they had been torn and fragmented by the feet of many. We have no reference to what they might be . . . other than what they appear to be." And as he said the last sentence, Polizia opened the bag and pulled out one of the objects in it.

It was a . . . feather.

A weird looking feather.

A really weird looking feather.

Ron was now standing next to his girl and as Kim took the feather from Polizia's hand, his face screwed up, "is that—?"

"It's furry . . . although all of the 'fur' is just on one side." And true wonder was in Kim's voice. Her eyes then narrowed and she bit at her lip in concentration as her other fingers traced the surface, "but the marking pattern and color? It's almost like—"

"Our initial assessment based on all of the recovered like items laid out on a table together was a color and pattern of spots very similar to the leopard although the basic size of the pattern of spots is much smaller."

"A furry feather—cool," was Ron's contribution to the conversation.

Kim was of course already pulling out the Kimmunicator. In moments, a bleary eyed Wade appeared on the screen.

"Oh," and Kim felt herself blush. "I'm so sorry Wade. I know it has to be the middle of the night there—"

The boy genius waved her off. "Sokay Kim, haven't been to bed yet, been so busy working this information." He stifled out a yawn. "whatchgot?"

She held up the 'furry feather', "scan this."

Wade did so but only because she asked him too. It wasn't until he looked at his screen that he realized—

"Is—is that a . . . furry feather?"

Kim opened her mouth to tell Wade to go to bed and call her back later because he obviously was too tired because—

Her mouth snapped shut as he was a sudden flurry of activity. "This is it! This is the final piece!"

Kim and Ron looked at each other in surprise. Kim then looked back. "Wade?! Last piece of what?"

"Gimmie thirty seconds Kim!"

Kim glanced up at Polizia, seeing surprise and expectation in his otherwise normally professional face. The Inspector of course noticed her glance. "If your source," he stated quietly, "is able to accomplish what all of mine have been unable to do, I will find myself even more inclined to dismiss the various inferences that certain parties are still attempting to convince me of—"

Suspicion and distrust narrowed Kim's eyes; was someone . . . specifically . . . was Descont and Getty still trying to get her and Ron in trouble . . . and why would they be doing that?

Movement on the screen of the Kimmunicator brought her eyes back to it, those narrowed emerald eyes going wider as she saw that Wade was now staring at his side monitor with a oh so incredulous look on his face. "Wade . . . just what is the sitch?" she asked.

Wade's hand came up to rub the back of his head as he considered what was before him. "I'm . . . not sure . . . but why don't you guys take a look and tell me what you think."

Wade disappeared as in a rapid sequence, dim, blurred, mostly unidentifiable images paraded across the screen while he talked in the background. "One of the things that I've been working on is the video from The Runway. Now, even though the lights went out, the five cameras positioned around The Runway continued to record. Of course, things were pretty dark. But when Rufus shorted out the power box, powerful stage lighting all throughout the room started to explode in rapid succession. This created an effect very similar to the strobe lights used in high-speed photography. The images you see here are the ones recorded through that process."

Now the image on the screen of the Kimmunicator changed even as Wade continued his explanation. "Using that imagery, which from the various aspects of the five differently placed cameras was quite extensive and varied, I attempted to 'reconstruct' a three-dimensional image of whatever it was that was flying around The Runway." In the Kimmunicators screen, the same images they had just seen rose up in a vortex like fashion, whirled around and started to rapidly fit together as if making a 3-D puzzle. "The problem that I was having," Wade continued, "was that I was unable to get a firm idea of just what the 'surface texture' of the object under construction should be. Now that the Inspector was able to provide the 'furry feather' I have something to work with as a benchmark from which I can create a whole . . . and this is what we have arrived at . . . if anyone can figure out just what it is."

All three viewers watching the Kimmunicator screen took in sharp breaths as the image came together to reveal—

It looked like . . . if a house cat could really look like one, the body of this one (including legs and tail) looked like a 'house cat' that looked just like a leopard . . .

Except—

Leopards . . . didn't have wings. This leopard had wings, broad strong wings coming off of its shoulders. Kim and Ron, both from the foothills of Colorado knew the wings were just like those of a large hunting owl—

It had to be a large hunting owl—

Because the 'house cat' body . . . also had the head of a large hunting owl—

"Sick and wrong," Ron muttered.

But Kim . . . was staring. Something was tickling at the back of her mind. But only tickling . . . because there were some things she just couldn't get her mind around right now because of too much drama . . . and one of those was—

"Wade . . ." she almost stammered as she tried to pin the thought down. She hoped that brainstorming with her young genus friend would cause things to click. "I know that this looks just like a leopard, but there's no way that whatever these things are that they could have been a leopard's size. Did someone miniaturize a leopard and stick owl parts onto it?"

Even though he wasn't visible, Kim could hear Wade's keyboard going ten miles a minute in the background. His voice had that distracted sound when he was hot on a clue even as he explained, "they weren't that big Kim. In fact, using known photographic parameters for distance, brightness and contrast for the images the reconstruction was built out of, I can confidently estimate that these 'flying cats' actually were about the size of normal house cats . . . and that thought suddenly leads my tired brain to think about something much simpler than someone shrinking a leopard down to size."

With that, the screen split in two, a second image coming up next to the first one, Kim's eyes widening as she saw it.

"Wade, you Rock! You're exactly right. I don't know how we could have missed it. I mean, we've both seen them often enough in the jungles of Central and South America."

Ron however was staring at the small image obviously trying to put two and five together. As Inspector Polizia was also staring in curious non-understanding, Kim would give her boyfriend a save before he said something—

"That Inspector . . . is a South American Ocelot. A 'house sized' jungle cat that just so happens to have the same fur color and spot pattern as a leopard." The Inspector nodded his understanding and appreciation. Ron just blinked and after a moment, made the mental connection. "Cool," he breathed as the memory came to him. He then continued to consider the image for the 'flying cat' for a moment before another nod. "An 'owl-headed' ocelot—" he decided.

Kim's whole body suddenly jerked upright with eyes wide, catching her breath as she stared out without seeing anything, voice breathing, "Ron—that's it! You got it!"

Ron stared blankly at his girlfriend for a moment, then shook his head to clear it, hearing what Kim said but not understanding . . . Kim saw Polizia give her boyfriend a sidelong glance full of questions—

But before Ron had to admit that he didn't have a clue as to what he had supposedly figured out, Kim nodded firmly, pointing her finger at the display.

"This," Kim said full of the conviction that she was right, "is an artificial life form made to raid and steal while flying in pitch black darkness. They had to come in through the air ducts so they had to be small and supple and strong and flexible, they had to be fast and maneuverable, they had to be intelligent enough to be trained for this. Someone 'created' these creatures by taking the body and abilities of a 'house size' arboreal jungle cat and mating it with the wings, head and senses of a night flying predator—"

"And—" Kim's voice taking on an almost angry edge, "it was created with the designated specifications from the two donor species with the express purpose to steal Cuddle Buddies—!"

Ron's eyes then went as wide as Kim's had been as he finally figured out just what it was that he had figured out—"owl-headed ocelot," he breathed.

Kim grimly shook her head; "close Ron but not quite there." She looked back to the small image of the 'recreation', "what it should be called is an 'owlcelot'."

Ron's growl now matched his girlfriend, "courtesy of the Cuddle Buddy Queen, DNAmy I'm sure."

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It took a couple of hours for everyone who was anyone to be gathered once again at the center. The meeting was held in the boardroom where the big screen display was utilized.

"The question as to how they were able to open and close the service hatches on the air ducts," Wade's voice continued via the speakers, "as well as reach in a actually 'grab' the precious items, involved another modification to the owlcelots." The display on the screen changed, showing a 'paw' on one of the creatures that more resembled the hand of a monkey verses a cats paw.

There were several 'grunts' from those sitting around the table. 'Grunts' had been about the entire acknowledgement those gathered had displayed as far as their apparent opinion of all the work that Team Possible had managed. Kim could feel what apparently was downright hostility from several of those present. In fact—

"Signorina Possible," Signor Descont started, waving one hand tiredly, "we care not for the details of these . . . creatures. All that matters to all those of us present" and the waving hand now was drawn across those around 'his' side of the table, "is what is it that you intend to do to recover our missing precious items."

"And why," came the voice of Getty, sounding almost exactly like a smooth talking snake, "considering that both this Amy Hall and Falsetto Jones are both villains that Signorina Possible has previously dealt with, both of whom have very specific 'precious items' that they covet, both of which items of those types were prominently present at this display, did Team Possible not make this information available to those of us ultimately responsible for the protection so that special safeguards might have been put in place?"

Kim felt her face getting red, for as ridiculous as Getty's statement was, almost all of the men on the 'other' side of the table displayed looks on their faces that said that they agreed with Getty's estimation.

"In all fairness to Signorina Possible," Inspector Polizia countered softly, "I am aware that there had been a general agreement in the final planning stages of the event to use Team Possible solely for the deterrent effect that they might have and that they would provide this deterrent . . . free of charge . . . unlike the expensive additional security that was to be provided. There was specifically mentioned that they were to be uninformed of possible hazards and that they were . . . beneath . . . I believe that was the term used, being asked to provide input or intelligence." Polizia had fixed Signor Descont with a hard stare as he said this. The old man's return gaze was blazing. Kim hoped that Polizia was well insulated against reprisals from a man who probably had considerable influence with . . . higher officials. "I also believe," Polizia continued, "that Signor Grippe protested this fact—"

"That will be enough Inspector," Descont said frigidly. The cold faced old man then gave the two teens a sidelong look, "Signorina Possible and . . . her male assistant, would you please excuse us."

The hostility in the room was now almost visible. Kim's first reaction was to stay if for no other reason than show her gratitude for Polizia's support against this group of aged sexist bigots—

But she felt Ron rise beside her, felt his hand firmly on her elbow bringing her up with him. She shot him an angry look but Ron firmly shook his head at her. Kim wanted to dig her heels in against Ron as well as the ancient idiots—

But she realized that loosing her temper and standing up for Polizia, Ron and herself would probably cause them to be sent home immediately, removing any chance to further solve the mystery. She went ahead and stood, starting to turn as she felt Ron fall in beside her—

"Pardon . . . a moment Signorina Possible."

This came from Getty . . . who did not sound sorry at all. The two teens turned back to look at the huge man, both of them startled to find a just-as-huge smile on his face. "It is our understanding," and again it was the voice/tone of a snake, "from our earlier . . . interrogation of you . . . " and Getty's eyes glinted angrily indicating that the teens earlier 'debrief' by Polizia with Getty present would have gone much rougher if the huge man had been able to conduct it alone, "you indicated that your . . . small operative . . . was knocked into the lighting junction box right before the system blew up. We are to now understand that maybe one of these creatures is responsible for intentionally or accidentally causing that to happen?"

Ron and Kim looked at each other. It wasn't something that they had considered but like the injuries to Kim's back from the mid-air—

"That could very well be true," Kim replied carefully, not sure where Getty was going with this.

"The fact remains Signorina Possible," Descont now stated, his tone clearly hostile, "that your . . . your . . . (he looked as if he was struggling to get the word out because of total disgust) naked rat . . . is responsible for the entire destruction of our studio lighting system. Every single lamp blew apart. It is amazing that there was no one seriously hurt!"

"Rufus was trying to help," Kim shot back, appalled in the back of her mind that she was instantly standing up for Rufus when she was oh so unable to do so for Ron.

"A rodent help?" Descont said with scorn.

"Rufus is not—" Ron started angrily.

"Silence _ragazzo_!" Descont snorted. "You will not address me in that tone. You can't even say that you truly captured the one thief _giovinetto_, you fell on him. Not any way for a man to accomplish such a task."

Kim was literally breathless with the insult that Descont had just hurled at Ron. Later she would think that she was so shocked that she _couldn't_ respond . . .

But Kim also didn't get the chance to get beyond it because Desconts gaze came back to her, "now I understand why you work for _free_ (he made it sound like a dirty word). Well, in the future you must find a way to have someone pay you Signorina." With that, he threw a piece of paper toward Kim.

"That is a invoice for damages Signorina. The initial estimates," Descont continued in a cold voice, "on the damage repair is 120.000.00 euros. We expect immediate payment." A tight, hating smile came to Desconts face, "I do hope that you have insurance—"

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The two teens had gotten almost all the way back to the staging area behind The Runway before Kim's anger started to run out of steam. At the same time, her boyfriend who normally might be in slight shock from the browbeating he had just experienced, was at the moment trying to both calm as well as avoid the onslaught of the extended nuclear explosion that had been emitting from his totally enraged and enflamed girlfriend. Unfortunately, Kim was soooo P/O'ed (and in shock more than a bit herself, she couldn't even calculate how many babysitting jobs it would take to get that much money) that she wasn't giving Ron a second thought in either instance. There was only one thing that she wanted to do at the moment and that was find evidence that she could throw right back into that hateful old dinosaurs face.

"Head in the game Ron—" Kim snapped (not even seeing Ron flinch in response). She pulled the Kimmunicator out (knowing that Wade had disconnected from his satellite broadcast as soon as Signor Descont started to pull the rug out from under them) activating it. "Wade," she tried not to snap at Wade but OOOOOHHHHHH she was cranked, "You listened to the conversation that Ron and I had with Polizia while we were waiting for that so-called meeting to be set up. There is no indication that anything other than people left the building once the lights went out. That . . . assistant that I helped load the designers clothing, she couldn't have gotten out. That would have to mean—"

"That she had someplace in the building to hide the stuff until the heat blew over," Wade finished for her, giving Kim a wary look even through the distance of the Kimmunicator.

"Right," Kim said, feeling a little better now that _someone_ was agreeing with her. "Now the last time I saw the 'assistant' she was pushing the case down this hall. Ron and I are going to walk it, can you scan for hidden rooms while we do?"

"No problem."

"Now how about your other checks Wade," Kim asked, still trying to get her anger under control and hoping that working her mind on another angle would help.

"Interesting," the boy genius came back. "Signor Descont seems to think he is a very, _very_ important man . . . and at one point he, or at least his family—I'm not quite sure, might have been but what I need to substantiate that, a lot of it looks to be deleted or purged. The family was wealthy and powerful once, but the why and wherefore of their 'fall' apparently is old news that has been written over. Descont does have a current, and apparently well-deserved reputation for quote, 'making every penny bleed out its life' unquote. And . . . apparently, he is _rumored_ to have contact if not access to organized crime."

"Ohhhhh Da Mafia," Ron whispered dramatically. Kim just gave him a smoking look (under which he wilted slightly) although her true anger was directed at just how Descont was attempting to bleed a penny out of _her_.

"However," Wade continued, his own tone dropping low, "it may be a lot more than rumor. Descont is responsible for bringing your friend Mr. Getty on board as assistant head of security. And Getty apparently _was_ a _Uomini D'onore_; a soldier for the Mafia, ready to advance to the next level when he was arrested in the huge crackdown by the government several years ago. He's on long-term parole with Descont as his sponsor."

"Could there be a possible tie in with Jones?" Kim asked eagerly.

Wade screwed his face up even as he shrugged. "Don't know and I wouldn't think it would. From everything I'm reading, Italian Organized Crime does not like outsiders operating in their territory, especially if it's an event like the fashion debut which just _might_ be under their protection."

Kim bit her lower lip for a moment before giving a grudging nod of assent. "You're right, that doesn't make sense. That would have to mean that Amy and Jones are operating from the outside."

"And someone else," Ron spoke up beside her. Kim looked at him with an almost annoyed expression, "Ron, what do you mean?"

Ron managed to take the look, holding his ground long enough to say, "it came to me that we're in a situation that's kind of like one of the video games that Felix and I play. You know, 'DWOC (Driving Without Consent) XVII'—"

Kim gave Ron 'the look' and almost snarled, "I so do not know or want to know anything about that sadistic, violent—"

Ron, round eyed, held up his hands to ward of his girlfriends wrath, talking rapidly, "KP, KP, what I'm trying to say is that in the on-line 'team games', a bunch of the gangs have to get together to pull a big heist off. Each gang has to make their piece of the operation work in order for the whole thing to go down. Put that together with what you said yesterday about how it was a three pronged operation—"

Kim's eyes narrowed as she considered, "soooo, what you're saying is that each prong was handled by an entirely different set of attackers—"

"Makes sense," Wade agreed, "DNAmys owlcelots create chaos and a distraction while at the same time she gets the Cuddle Buddies. Jones, using the owlcelots as cover, tries to get what he's known for, the diamonds and jewels, while the assistant in the back room also takes advantage of what's going on out in front and goes after the new fashions . . . " Wade stopped and shook his head, "but there's the problem. I checked out the assistant as thoroughly as I could; I found nothing on her to suggest that she was anything other that a good, loyal employee of Desconts."

One of Kim's eyebrows went up. "Could it be that there is some reason that Descont wanted the new debut clothing taken out? That would explain why the assistant did it . . . and why his flunky Getty is trying so hard to pin the blame on Ron and me." Then Kim's other eyebrow rose, "but Wade . . . there's someone being left out here. Grippe! What's his story and why would he disappear when it all went down?"

Wade's face looked out of the Kimmunicator screen, just a hint of anxiety showing. "That is the other big mystery Kim. Everything I've found out about Grippe seems to indicate that he's a top-notch security guy. He keeps a very low profile for some reason and has an odd track record of who he works for and how long he stays with them as well as some . . . interesting gaps in his employment history."

"And why does he have those Wade?" Kim countered, sounding unconvinced. "It sounds like he's got some issues _somewhere_."

Wade looked even more uncomfortable. "He . . . does. He has . . . family issues—"

"Ahhhh," Ron chuckles, rubbing his hands together theatrically. "Skeletons in the closet is it? Maybe a 'Black Lamb' or two in the family—"

"That's 'Black Sheep' Ron," Kim corrected, one hand coming up tiredly to her forehead.

Ron made an offhand wave. "Lamb, sheep, whatever; no problem . . . as long as it's not a monkey the Ronster is cool—"

Wade took a deep breath and took the plunge. "But it is Ron."

Both teens looked sharply at the Kimmunicator. "But it's what Wade?" Kim asked.

"It's a . . . monkey. Lord The Honorable Hannibal Grippe, the Marquis of Sandsimian . . . is also the cousin of Lord Monte Fisk."

Kim's eyebrows now tried to climb off of the top of her forehead. Ron's expression took on a look of unmitigated horror—

"STOP!"

Kim and Ron, at the command in Wade's voice almost fell forward due to the abruptness with which their forward motion stopped. Ron actually did stumble slightly but Kim shifted her balance successfully. "Wade, what—?" Kim had time to say.

"The wall on your left," Wade directed. Kim turned the sensors on the Kimmunicator toward it, only now noting that she and Ron had traveled through the warrens of the complex down to the rear service areas. They were just short of where large cargo docks were located. After orienting herself, Kim looked back at Wade on the screen.

"What's the sitch?"

"The main warehouse is behind this wall in front of you," Wade explained as the scans were run. "But I'm detecting a . . . void between that wall and the actual warehouse. Considering the construction and layout of the rest of this area, there's no sign of it being a utility pass-through area or even a secret stair; it's on this level alone . . . and while you may not 'see' a door . . . there _is_ a hidden door directly in front of you."

Kim's eyes searched the wall in front of her. "Any idea what's inside?"

Fingers flying on keyboard—"there's a lot of something . . . and maybe a couple of heat sources but that's all I can make out."

Kim could hear the tone in Wade's voice however. "What do I do to open the hidden door?"

"Working on it. Sidestep to your right—"

As Kim held the Kimmunicator aloft and followed Wade's directions as to how she moved it about for its best scanning angle, Ron stood back, shoulders and head back up against the wall across from the one Kim was scanning. He flicked his head about him, the old habit of watching everywhere for danger or a threat whenever he and Kim were in mission mode—

His head went over very tight against his shoulder as he saw something stuck to the stonewall next to him. It was a yellow sticky 'post it' with the words '_aperto entrada_' next to a . . . hole in the wall just the right size to stick the end of his finger in—

"I sure don't see _any_ kind of mechanism," Wade's voice coming from the Kimmunicator sounded frustrated.

"Do we need to go into the warehouse?" Kim asked.

"Don't see the point," Wade countered, "of having the door activate from in there if it opens out into the hall you're in. If someone was in a hurry, it would take two people to hide something in here."

Kim brought her other hand up in front of her face to help her think. "Well, there's no guarantee that this room has anything to do with our current crime."

Wade nodded. "Right about that, this is one crazy building with a weird combination of old and new—if it wasn't for the heat sources—"

Kim was about to ask, "could it be just heat ducts or something—"

She then stopped as her eyes got very big around—

Like an old swing up garage door, a section of the wall was moving up in silence!

"Kim," Wade had enough time to say, his tone alarmed from both his sensors and Kim's expression.

Kim's head snapped over to check on Ron—

And found him, with his finger stuck deep in a hole in the wall behind her, a sheepish look on his face. Kim suddenly understood.

"Ron . . . you did it! You found the door button!"

His look was even more sheepish, "ah . . . yeah . . . but . . . my fingers stuck!"

"I would gladly assist freeing your finger in exchange for food, drink and a bathroom young Ronald—"

At that weary voice, Kim and Ron's heads both snapped back to the now fully opened door and the dim objects revealed inside of it. One of which, was Han Grippe, pale/dirty/bruised, coming out into the light, half carrying a woman whom Kim immediately recognized as the assistant who was last seen taking all the designer clothing.

Kim instinctively went to reach for her knockout compact when she was stopped by Grippes voice again when he added—

"You would think that anyone nowadays would at least provide _some_ comforts for those they've taken captive."

The two teens could only look at each other in surprise.

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A/N: Thank you to everybody who has been reading and as always, a double thanks to those who take the time to send a review my way.

Hopefully will finish the entire rough in the next couple of days. If that happens, I hope to be able to publish fairly regularly. That would give me some time to get some other things done before starting on the next story.

And in case you might be wondering what happened to the 'cliffy' at the end of chapter six . . . . . .

Well, I had not expected the reaction that got. Sorry to say that the resolution to that scene will not be seen in this story but as 'Kim's Locker Scene' in Chapter 2 of WSCS was the lead-in to this story, that 'cliffy' will be a part of a future story. I sincerely apologize if this is a let down . . . but I will not promise that it wont happen again.

Until then

I Will Remain

Your Humble and Devoted Servant

The Wise Duck


	8. Multiple Conversations

Kim sat perched on the edge of the couch in Grippes darkened office, Ron restless at her side. Grippe was seated in the high chair behind his desk, the staff medic was just finishing cleaning the wound on the side of his face. Grippe's eyes however were locked on the monitor of his desktop computer where Wade was repeating the 'briefing' given as to his findings about the 'owlcelots'.

"—got a good photo here; by the way, this is where I was stopped while I was briefing Descont and the other bigwigs, this photo is one of the owlcelots hands. Again DNAmys work is clear because—"

Grippe winced as the medic applied a bandage to his forehead but his voice was steady when he remarked to Wade, "utterly amazing. These creatures have the hands of new world monkeys. No wonder they were able to manipulate the covers on the air vents and untwist the Cuddle Buddies securing wraps and pins without doing injuries to the models. Fascinating!"

"In addition," Wade continued, "I've managed to come up with a pretty complete guess as to the handprints in the elevator from when Jones was broken out."

Kim and Ron rose from the couch, the medic moving so the two teens could stand on either side of Grippe as Wade brought up the new information.

"Considering that we now assume that DNAmy is one of our opponents, I ran the prints against those of a gorilla figuring that the 'something' that broke Jones out was one of Amy's gorilla henchmen or Amy herself in her gorilla form."

Ron looked up with a questioning eye at his girlfriend. "KP, do you think that it was Amy or one of those . . . gorillas (said with a shudder) that picked you up and tossed you across the main room?"

Kim firmly shook her head. "No, if nothing else, I would have smelled them. And something that big and unusual would have been seen by somebody else in the exploding lights."

"Interesting indeed," Grippe murmured. The two teens looked at him. He gave them a small smile and tapped the side of his nose. "As I said after you pulled me and the young lady out of that horrid room, although as I told you when you arrived that I was not aware of any specific intelligence that an attack on the show was imminent, I had heard rumors through my sources in the staff that _something_ unusual was _not_ going to happen, which is . . . something that never happens. There is always some kind of rumor or speculation about a disaster or villain getting involved. So I surmised that something in fact _was_ going to happen and that the sources and rumors were being suppressed . . . which in itself is a telling clue."

The medic finished and broke off, Grippe giving the woman a nod of thanks . . . then he waited for her to leave his office before continuing, "with this knowledge, toward the end of the presentation, I moved without advising my staff in order to position myself in a vantage point along the best route of flight, that same hallway where you found us. I wasn't sure but as we found, the finale was indeed the best time to strike as all the attention would be focused there so I wanted to be in position well before that. As I was settling myself I heard . . . something . . . particular and very, very faint coming through that same wall that your man Wade discovered and you yourselves saw. I was able to find and open the secret room, no great detective work there for as Ronald discovered, there was a post it that said 'open door' in Italian; and I had just reached the poor tied up young lady assistant, who of course had been the source of the sounds I heard when . . . 'something' grabbed me from out of the darkness of that hidden room and threw me into its back wall (he tenderly rubbed the spot on his head)." His smile turned into a chagrined grin. "There had been a particular . . . aroma when the hidden door opened, but it did not key any memory in me and at the time I believed that it was just the musky damp 'odor' of a long-sealed room itself—"

Grippe again tapped the side of his nose. "It's been at least twenty years since I last appreciated the scent of a sweaty gorilla and that is why it did not occur to me at the time when that same aroma hit me in that hidden room." He then gave a self-depreciating shrug. "Of course, no one expects such a simian of that size or disposition in Milan in the first place."

"By the way Kim," Wade put in, "I analyzed the tracings that were on the back of your mission shirt. It definitely was one of the owlcelots that you hit in mid air. There was a trace of blood there as well. It may have been injured."

Kim rubbed the still sore back of her head thinking evil thoughts about owlcelots flying in pitch darkness where they could collide with her. But after a moment, she moved on with her thinking, dropping her chin onto her held up fist as she concentrated on the mystery. After a moment, "any luck Wade on finding a possible location where Amy has her lab?"

"Still working on that Kim. Nothing solid yet."

Kim then looked down at Grippe. "You've heard our theories about Amy and the Cuddle Buddies and Jones and the diamonds and jewels. Any thoughts on who would be after the clothing?"

Grippe rubbed his jaw. "To tell the truth, I thought the premier fashions the least likely target of an attack. But as to motive," he shrugged, "rivals in Paris and London? There is a trio in your own country that would absolutely go buggers for the stuff as they are counterfeiters of the latest fashions. But the very idea that someone would actually _try_ to take the fashions absolutely . . . boggles me."

"And the assistant—?" Kim pressed as she was most unhappy with what they had learned about that.

Grippe shrugged. "What else can be said about that? As she had already been kidnapped and was in the hidden room when I first heard and then found her, the assistant obviously could not be the one you . . . assisted in taking all the clothing for my discovery of her was still several minutes before the time of the incident on The Runway and your subsequent activities in the staging area." He raised one hand in question and continued, "I can not believe her story that _my_ secretary is the one who approached her before the event even started and led her back into the warehouse area because my secretary was with me and my other personnel in the control room." He shrugged again. "So it is most unfortunate that the security video of the area caught the footage of someone resembling my secretary from behind leading someone who resembled the assistant from behind back toward the warehouse areas. That an unknown someone had the resources to create not one but _two_ personas in imitating both women, that those personas were able to function among those who knew them—"

Grippe then stopped, a finger tapping one lip as a thought had obviously occurred to him, "although," he said in a venturing tone, "from what I have been able to learn in the short time since I've 'returned' (time that was taken in order to find workmen who could help Ron get his finger unstuck from the hole in the wall), it seems that neither woman, my 'secretary' when drawing the assistant away . . . and the 'assistant' when working in the staging area prior to the attack, seemed—" He shook his head as if trying to puzzle it out. "The assistant said that my secretary . . . 'talked funny' to her . . . and the back stage personnel who dealt with your assistant Kimberly said she hardly talked at all . . . which in itself would be . . . unusual for that assistant has a reputation of never shutting up!"

Grippe considered it for moment until another shrug ended the thought. He then snorted, "but I suppose that I didn't answer the question as to who would want to try to remove the designer fashions. I am truly at a loss as to why anyone would want to do that or what they would truly be able to do with them if they had in fact managed to remove them from the building."

Ron nodded his head knowingly, arms crossing in front of his chest in firm agreement. "Man, I agree all the way. Some of the stuff that I saw those girls wearing on The Runway, why they weren't even—"

"Ron—" and his eyes opened to see two spots of hot emerald glaring at him—

"Shutting up now."

Just then, the light coming in from the open office door ceased to exist. Grippe looked up. "Getty?"

The hulking assistant came in through the office door, and immediately stepped aside for the tall, thin form of Signor Descont, whose face was completely devoid of emotion and his eyes were locked on Grippe.

"Signorina Possible, would you and your assistant please . . . excuse us . . . "

Kim started to react, but a touch from a hand that could only belong to Grippe stopped her. She didn't look at him though. She headed straight out, feeling Ron behind her at his usual and familiar spot.

But she was not happy.

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Kim eyes narrowed . . . dangerously—

"Excuse me," she started to say, using it to get a handle on her suddenly igniting temper.

"Excuse _me_ Signorina," and Descont's tone was sharp and hostile, "but you were brought to us here for a specific task . . . of which failure to accomplish it you did. However, you did manage to find and recover all of the missing clothing belonging to the designers so I . . . so we . . . while we can not forgive for the first failure, we must at least be gracious for that. So the task you were brought for is finished, now it is time for you to return home."

"But sir," Kim said carefully having to remember everything her parents pounded into her about being respectful to an elder, "my 'task' is _not_ finished—"

"All of the designers wares have been returned," Descont continued as if addressing a retarded child, "the taking of the diamonds and jewelry was never completed so they are not an issue, (Descont did _not_ Kim noted, mention that the reason why the diamonds and jewelry were not taken was because of Ron's actions but then, his opinion of that was already too well known) there is no further reason for your presence here."

"But," Kim sounded appalled, "what about the Cuddle Buddies?"

With a disdainful flip on the hand, Descont replied, "their owners will be paid off. That is why we have insurance." He then gave the teens a angry glare, "although the quicker you pay what is owed us for the damages you caused will quicken the time those same . . . 'collectors' are reimbursed."

"Sir," Kim said formally, forcing herself to ignore what Descont had just said, "what about all the other facts? Someone had to plan and integrate this plot. That someone still has to be found. Your own employee, the assistant coordinator for your rear stage area was kidnapped and replaced by an imposter. That means that _someone_ was disguised as her and prepped well enough to pass for her during the show up until the lights went out. That person and those who prepared and prepped her still need to be found. Your own chief of security—"

Descont's hand snapped up in front of Kim's face. If she had been anybody else she would have flinched. "Signor Grippes employment has been terminated. But he is under a confidentially contract so you will not speak or see him. You are to leave _now_!"

"You," Ron started hotly, "can't talk to Kim that—"

Ron did flinch when Desconts _very_ pointed and gnarled finger almost pushed Ron's nose in. "Keep you silence _ornetto_. If you were mine I would beat you until you couldn't walk!" Descont then looked back at Kim, suppressed fury in his eyes. "And you Signorina, go home, put on a proper dress that covers all your skin completely and wait until a real man comes along to make you pregnant."

Every fiber in Kim's being froze at this . . . this . . . Before she could blink let alone move, the elderly Italian turned and stormed away. But that allowed a smirking faced Getty, accompanied by several slightly less large 'assistants' to step closer and menace the two teens toward the door. It wasn't until they were outside (neither realizing that they're packs from their room were on the ground in front of them) and the door clicked closed behind them did they truly understand—

"Why that—" Kim started with the full fury force of redhead—

Ron cringed, placing his hands over his ears—

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"I take it that we're not going home?"

Kim winced inside at Ron's tone. The two of them were sitting in a little booth in a little hole-in-the-wall eatery. The translator function in the Kimmunicator had gotten them their order without any problems as well as giving her the correct payment amount in American money—

But the plate in front of Ron was as clean as if it had just come out of the dishwasher (other than the stuffed/comatose Mole Rat passed out on top of it) while her fork was still stirring the uneaten salad in front of her. She had no clue how much time had passed.

On the outside, Kim's whole body language was still very angry. The timid sentence Ron had just managed to say were the first words he had said to her since her eruption after their ejection. Deep inside, Kim could feel the terrifying insecurity of her hidden self tearing at so many things, first and foremost of which was the boy across from her and his—

"Do you want to go home?" she forced herself to ask, angry and horrified at the tone of her own voice. She inwardly cringed and mentally whipped herself when Ron curled up further into himself at her snarl. Her head dropped and she _forced_ herself to say, "I'm sorry Ron, I didn't mean it. I shouldn't be taking things out on you." She took a long, slow ragged breath and started to try again in a softer tone—

"I don't want to go with the mission unfinished KP."

Despite it all, Kim looked up . . . but Ron's head was down and his eyes were hidden from hers. Kim's own eyes closed and she felt the moisture at their corners. Her own head dropped and she managed to say, "this whole sitch has been screwed up from the beginning, and almost all of it is my fault. I don't know if it . . . the mission . . . can be saved Ron."

"That's quitter talk Kim," and there was that same hidden firmness in Ron's tone which he used so rarely but when he did, it took her breath away. Kim brought her head back up to see Ron eyeing her severely. In a tone equal to that, he went on. "Yeah, you took this mission for all the wrong reasons, but if you hadn't, if we hadn't been there, Jones would have gotten the jewelry and gotten away, the designer fashions would be gone and the authorities wouldn't of had a clue that it was DNAmy responsible for the Cuddle Buddies or even that they existed." Ron stopped and gave her a grim smile. "You want to make a bet for soda that if all that had happened, old Descont certainly wouldn't have called us in after the fact. I'm just a entourage flunky whose only a boy and you're an out of control 'girl' who should stop playing with the big boys and go back to waiting for a real man to make you a good little pregnant housewife."

The angry gleam came back into Kim's eyes and her hands became fists on the table between them. "That narrow minded, pathetic, chauvinistic, backward, ancient, ignorant—"

"KP," Ron hissed, "your volume is going up again."

Kim's whole face clamped down, her hands squeezing until her knuckles were white. Ron's looked on until he was ready to wince. He knew how upset she was but still—

"Ron—?" and her tone banished all other thoughts in his brain . . . she sounded . . . unsure—

"What is it KP?" he replied, trying to give her a tone of reassurance.

"I—I know that we just started to get serious," Ron's insides tightened further at the distraught sense of insecurity that he had only occasionally saw in his Kim . . . and he tried not to frown at fact that the rare times when he had seen it in her . . . was usually when she had been crushing on some other boy. But as much as he was upset right now, he would never intentionally say or do anything to make things worse so he calmly listened as Kim continued with, "and I know that there is so much ahead of us and things that we haven't even talked or thought about or imagined us doing if we stay together—"

"Kim," and that firm tone was back in Ron's voice, "no talk about any kind of 'if' in our relationship. We're both in it for the long haul. We have to be, we know nothing else when it comes to each other."

Kim's head dropped again, and she had to force, "Ron, it means a lot to me to hear you say that . . . especially when . . . we're not even close to being on the best of terms right now . . . "

Ron's eyes dropped from her and his mouth started to come open—

"And even more," Kim continued before he could, "when I can't say what I really feel—"

Ron . . . even if he didn't raise his eyes back up to her, reached out unerringly, putting his hands over her tight fists, gently squeezed her hands and managed to say, "I _know_ what you feel Kim, you don't have to say it."

Kim didn't reply to that. She didn't say anything for several moments. Ron was about to ask her if she was—

"Ron . . . . . . things are really screwed up between us right now. We both know . . . that it's all my fault. But . . . what Descont said . . . . . . Ron . . . I need to ask . . . . . . I need to know . . . I know that it's . . . way too early in our relationship to even think about . . . but . . . do you think at some time . . . you might consider . . . if you would have a . . . baby with me?"

There was no hesitation in Ron's voice and no nonsense in his eyes as they came back up to her. "I don't want to have a baby with you KP."

Her face shot up in miserable, agonized surprise . . .

To find her Best Friend/Boyfriend smiling gently at her . . . and before she could adjust . . .

"I was thinking that at least two, very possibly three babies are in store for us."

Kim bit her lip _hard_ and squeezed her eyes shut _tight_ as the real tears started. She felt one of Ron's hands slip from hers, only to feel his touch on her cheek a moment later.

"I know you KP, better than I know anyone else on this planet. I know that you are more than able to be both a hero and a mother and still have enough time to put up with me."

"Oh Ron—" she breathed.

"And I also know," he continued, "that just the fact that you can and will do all those things, be a hero, and an empowered woman, and be secure and powerful in whatever you do after graduation along with being the best mother there ever was . . . will be the perfect revenge against a monopithic dinosaur like Descont."

Kim snorted, her free hand coming up to press the hand Ron had against her cheek tighter. "That's monolithic goof," she corrected in a loving tone. She took a deep breath and asked, "have you really thought about it? Or are you . . . " she tapered off. She knew that Ron wouldn't have said it to her if he hadn't. His smile confirmed it.

"I've even had a little conversation about it with my 'rents, just so I could start to understand what it was all about." His face took on a particular look. "It was weird too, both my mom and dad seemed to make . . . I don't know . . . hints . . . that I might find out something about taking care of babies long before we get married." He shook his head, "can't figure that part out."

"You will be such a good father," Kim told him meaning every word.

Ron brushed it off as he took possession of his hands back, taking a moment to point at the still untouched salad in front of her. Kim flushed and finally started on it in earnest.

"So what's out first move," Ron asked.

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"This is like soooo bogus!" the skinny longhaired female shrieked into the dark. "All the money that I put into this . . . this . . . bogus piece of . . . bogus . . . "

"We were all well aware of the danger from Kim Possible," the squeaky voiced male reminded. "It seems that her . . . sidekick has also improved his skills enough to make him a threat to be worried about."

"Yaknow," the skinny female snapped scornfully, "you didn't get jack either! Where do you get off sounding so cool about it all."

"Unlike you, I am a professional in my trade. As such, I recognize that sometime things work and sometimes they don't, especially against a foe of Possible's caliber. It must be put behind and one moves on to the next one. I am appropriately grateful to my rescuer—"

"Anytime sweetie," the large heavy set female said with an absent tone for she appeared to be playing with something in her lap.

"Like yaknow," the skinny female sneered at the other female, "you can be all that cause you got what you were after."

"That is enough," the huge hulking male intoned.

"What of it fatso," the skinny one snapped back. "You got what you wanted as well. You're your own big boss man now that the Brit is out of the picture. I paid for this lab; for those . . . those . . . gross things to be made. I paid to have squeaky voice here busted out of the slammer, I likeyaknow risked my own baby butt in there and at least I managed to pull my part of it off and get that crap outta the room before somebody else to lost it for me! I gave _you_ tubbo (pointing directly at the huge man), the money to bribe the building crew to make sure the roof access on the elevator was off so her . . . things could get into the air vent system which at the same time allowed female tubbo here—"

"You're not very nice," the heavy-set one whined.

"Deal with it! The fact is that I PAID for this whole Disneyland ride and I didn't get s—"

"I suggest," the huge male stated . . . in a very dangerous voice, "that you follow your own advice and 'deal with it'. Nothing further can be done at this time and to do so might make things more difficult than they all ready are. As our esteemed professional colleague here just said, cut your losses and move on."

"Oh, I'll cut something alright," the skinny one hissed prior to turning and stalking out.

"Meanny," the heavy-set one muttered.

"Do you think she will cause problems?" the squeaky voice one asked the huge male.

"She knows better," was the reply. "And with Possible out of the picture, even if she does try something, the local authorities will deal with anything she does attempt."

"Even Polizia?" the tone was skeptical.

"I will deal with him if necessary. Even if he manages to bring Possible back, I will deal with all of them . . . very professionally of course."

"Welllllll—" and this sounded even more skeptical.

"Out with it Jones," the huge male grated.

"Possible may, in fact I would probably say, act without Polizia. Her reputation is at stake and the 'precious items' that she was most infatuated with are the only things missing. You may discount her as a frivolous teen but she is not. I thought of her that way once myself and spent the better part of a year incarcerated after making that mistake, losing the most flawless diamond in the world at the same time." He nodded at the heavy-set female playing with the plush toy. "Hall has encountered her several times and was also defeated. Hall herself may be forgettable, but her creations can be formidable and deadly."

There was a long moment of silence. "You may have a point," came the grudging admission. There was a long, long moment while the huge man thought. It was followed by a snort and a shrug of massive shoulders. "No matter. There are other options. And some of them would work well if Possible returns. But none of that is your concern. Do as you say, move on . . . there is nothing more for you here."

Falsetto Jones looked up uneasily at the huge man above him. The huge mans tone left no uncertainty in Jones that the huge man . . . and his associates and organization behind them had had a . . . different and separate agenda running parallel to the desires of the other three involved, and what bothered Jones the most, was that his own intelligence sources could tell him nothing about it.

That did not bode well . . . and indeed, that meant that it was time to move on. Falsetto Jones was a professional international jewelry theft, and as such, due to the Villains Code for Professional International Jewel Thieves, he would never commit murder in the commission of a crime or an escape if that crime was foiled . . . which didn't mean that he would not commit murder within his own abode if the good guys gained access to it (something that Possible and her associate had almost experienced once upon a time). And as the man of refinement that he was . . . he disliked associating with people who where ordinary thieves and murderers—

Spa Getty in his humble opinion certainly was both . . . and enjoyed being that way.

Which did not bode well for Kim Possible—


	9. Stumbling About

"—so when do you expect to be home?"

Kim gave kind of a shrug towards the Kimmunicator screen. "At this point mom, I'm really not sure. Until Wade can come up with where DNAmy's lab is, we're kinda dead in the water."

Her mom's sapphire eyes looked out at her from the screen and kind of gave a look— "Normally under those kinds of circumstances, you and Ron would go ahead and come home to wait. Is there any particular reason why you don't want to do that this time?"

"Ahhhh," Kim hesitated, mind working frantically trying to come up with a reason that she could use without lying to her mom—

"Or," her mom continued in a very 'knowing' tone, "is the reason because you have two younger brothers and two best friends that want to have a very pointed word with you about some 'Big Night' that almost got messed up—_was_ messed up for Ron—?"

The fact that Kim 'deflated' in front of her mom's vision gave the required answer.

"Kim—" her mom started in a disappointed tone.

"Please mom," Kim came back in a miserable tone, "Ron's cranked at me enough even though he's trying not to show it. I can't deal with him and you and _them_ at the same time."

"And just how will you deal with your father when and if he finds out that you've been out . . . should we say . . . unnecessarily for more than your usual amount of time?"

Kim rolled her eyes. "Mom, Ron's going to be seventeen soon and so will I a couple of weeks after that! It's not like Ron and I . . . are going to _do_ anything. We just stated being serious, we're not even close to _thinking_ about anything like that."

Kim could see the movement as her mom folded her arms. "And," was her mom's tart reply, "since when has logic and common sense had anything to do with the way your father deals with things like that?"

Kim felt herself sag further. Almost against her will she, "so I guess you're saying that I'd . . . that we'd . . . better get ourselves home?"

"If all you're doing is waiting for Wade, it would probably be best."

Ever so reluctantly, "okay mom, if you say so."

"Not unless there's something that you could actually be doing honey, I think—"

"Ahhhh . . . KP—?"

Kim looked up at Ron's voice. She was sitting on the bed of the small, dingy '1/4 Star' room that had taken Wade forever to find (she didn't have many outstanding favors in Italy at the moment). Ron's head was sticking through the door, he had gone 'down the hall' to the 'community bathroom' (a concept that had Kim wincing at just the very thought of). The whole situation spoke of just how badly she was trying to avoid going home because the place was _gross_!

"Yes Ron?" Kim said his name in order for her mom to know just who it was who had interrupted their conversation. At the same time, she could see that something was bothering him, but she couldn't tell just what it was.

"Ahhhhh," and Ron's discomfort was even more pronounced as he started to push through the door, "someone's here to see us—"

It was Han Grippe—

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"—and since we never got the chance to, to use your American term, 'compare notes', I thought it was best that I at least make the offer," Grippe said cheerfully as they all rode together in a cab.

Kim cocked an eyebrow at the small man. "I thought that Descont said something about you're being under contract not to talk to us or say anything about the center?"

Grippe threw off a hand in dismissal. "Yes he did and it is all true. But in my mind Kimberly, I would much rather leave a place of employment with nothing flapping loose behind me. Terribly damaging to ones résumé. Descont's 'contract' does not concern me, it is what I keep a battery of some of the best of the London bar on retainer for."

"Besides," he added with both a snort and a smile, "despite you're rather fearsome reputations, I fail to see why the both of you should have to spend your evening in such . . . substandard accommodations."

"Thank you—" Kim started to say with true gratitude—

"We were fine where we were at—" Ron put in sharply.

Kim gave her boyfriend another sidelong glance. He was . . . the only word that fit was 'huddled' back into his seat with his arms crossed and a none too friendly look on his face. That look had been there from the moment that she had accepted Grippes offer to stay at his place while going over the case brainstorming for clues and trying to figure their next move. Kim had a couple of times nudged Ron with a look saying to lighten up—

But it obviously hadn't happened and despite the fact that she knew that he was still annoyed with her, she was beginning to get annoyed with him.

However, in response to her boyfriends pointed reply, Grippe looked at Ron with a knowing gleam in his eyes and said without preamble, "please young Ronald, I am nothing like my notorious cousin whom you know as Monkey Fist. I would at least wish that you give me the benefit of the doubt until I do something to lose your trust."

Ron's eyes went wide for a moment allowing Kim to feel his usual level of fear kick in—

But then . . . Ron . . . surprised her. Instead of his normal sudden scramble to deny and . . . well—deny, his eyes . . . narrowed—

"Of course you would say something like that," her boyfriend said and she was almost shocked to hear just how . . . steady Ron sounded. But at the same time, she couldn't allow Ron to—

"Ron!" she hissed at him.

"It's quite alright Kimberly," and there was almost a chuckle in Grippe's voice. "Young Ronald is probably thinking about how convenient it was that I was . . . so neatly disposed of during the incident and that no matter how clean and clear my prior record could be, in the end I would almost certainly turn bad because . . . " and Grippe leaned in forward with an 'evil' grin, "blood _always_ tells."

Some of Ron's 'serious face' cracked with that and he backed up further into his seat (if that was possible). The tension almost cracked—

Then Grippe suddenly relaxed and leaned way back into his seat with a huge smile. "But I am not my not-so-good cousin. In fact I have always suspected that part of the reason why he is so hungry for power is that he was denied the title that I carry."

Ron blinked at that, his face screwed up in thought . . . and after a moment he ventured, "yeah, Wade said something about you being the . . . ahhhh . . . the . . . the market of something—"

"That's marques Ron—" Kim managed through an embarrassed wince.

Grippe chuckled again. "Good show. It's little things like that that keep over-bred, over-educated, over-the-hills-and-through-the-woods blue bloods such as I well grounded." He shook his head with another slight chuckle prior to continuing. "Be that as it may, you may have noticed that cousin Montgomery has the use of the title 'Lord'. As he is actually several weeks older than I, it might be fitting for him to actually have the marquis title . . . except that his father; my uncle and his mother were . . . not blessed by the right of wedlock."

Kim felt a shock right down to her toes. Monkey Fist was an illegitimate child?

Grippe was going along happily. "Yes I know, shocking and all. And to say the least, why does he have possession of the ancestral castle and that rot." A noncommittal shrug followed. "Daresay that Montgomery seemed for so many years to be forthright and upstanding. It was due to his interest in archeology that uncle granted him title to the castle and all of the history within . . . and I don't doubt that it wasn't until he made his life's work the expansion into and of the ancient history of Ti-Shing-Pec-Whar that he . . . started to lose his grip on reality."

"So like why," Ron challenged, trying to sound firm, "haven't you or the family done something with him to help him get a grip?"

"No need," was the immediate reply. "You young Ronald have been doing nicely on your own. There has been no need for me . . . as the only surviving family member of that side . . . to intercede."

Ron blinked again. "You really think so?" he asked in an entirely different tone. Grippe gave him a nod of affirmation.

Kim felt the tension lesson a bit . . . but she could tell that Ron still had something on his mind—

"Sir?" her boyfriend started.

Grippe gave him a look, "Ronald, I really don't know what I can do to convince you that I am not a threat. Surely—"

"Rufus," Kim said it very quietly but clearly and her sudden thought was rewarded with the Mole Rats head popping up out of Ron's cargo pocket.

"Ummm?"

Looking intently at their little friend, Kim waved a hand at Grippe, "what do you think?"

Rufus was a blur of motion zipping around, up and even over the little amused man sitting across from the teen pair. Finally, standing atop Grippe's head (made possible in the confines of the taxi by the Englishman's own short stature) the little guy made a thumbs up gesture with a firm "cool'.

Kim turned her look to her boyfriend who was still looking at Grippe, "well Ron?" she asked.

"No monkeys?" and there were more levels of sharpness in his question that even Ron was aware of.

A grin twitched at the corners of Grippes mouth as he confirmed, "none that I am aware of at least. Beyond that, if some do indeed show up, I will be as curious as to their origin as you will."

After a moment, Ron's look turned sheepish . . . and Kim knew the crisis was over.

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"So." Kim ventured sometime later, "despite it all, you don't think that Getty is—"

Grippe held up his hand stopping her. "I believe I said that I was . . . unconvinced that he might be directly involved in whatever happened. There is no hard evidence to point to it. Yes, I readily acknowledge that he has long been after my position, but he is not dense by any means and this may have been the opportunity he has been waiting to exploit."

"Like," Ron put in from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, wiping his last piece of bread from their meal into the gravy on the plate in front of him, "he was trying to exploit making Kim and I the ones to blame for it all?"

Grippe leaned far back into the couch, eyes looking to the ceiling as he absently twirled his wine glass in one hand, "yes, that certainly would have endeared him to Desconts own prejudices . . . and it is not the first time that he has done something like that."

Kim was sitting in the wingchair to the side, plate primly in her lap. "If I might ask, just why is Descont so . . . "

Grippe snorted, "he is that last of an old Italian family that viewed the world with an old style, very conservative set of values. The fact is, despite other appearances and the official record, all he is in reality just the manager of the facility, having been unofficially removed from any and all higher position due to his . . . mistreatment of those who do not hold his views. It is only his bedrock ability to hold costs down and get the most out of what he is forced to spend that endears him to the more modern and liberal members of the board . . . which is the faction that maintains a bare majority in the decision making process. It infuriates him that all who use the facility, be it fashion or the arts or the theater, treat him as 'the manager'—

"But I thought that you said that—?" Ron started.

"Because that is all that he is," Grippe answered with a shrug. "He just doesn't see it that way. He tries to hearken back to his family's political connections before, during and after the war and the fact that he had . . . some minor adventures as a lad during that same historic event . . . adventures that were heroic enough to gave him a certain . . . license to act the way he does in the eyes of the old establishment. But the sad fact is that he . . . and they . . . has not been able to move on to the twenty-first century and all the changes that entails."

"No 'political correctness'," Ron snorted.

"Among a host of other things," Grippe agreed. "But the center certainly can not remain stuck in a past time and it does move on . . . leaving Descont further and further behind."

"Alright," Kim broke in, trying to get the conversation back on track, "so if Getty isn't the inside man in this operation, who could it be?"

Grippe gave her a steady look, "that is the jackpot question isn't it? And again I say Kimberly, that at the moment, I have no opinion. It may well be Getty; he certainly would be in the best position for it although there was no indication of it prior since I was unaware of a potential conflict. A through investigation is needed . . . and that . . . would be very difficult considering our current position."

Kim cocked her head at him in question.

Grippe snorted and shrugged. "Personally . . . I think you're right and that Getty is in it up to his neck. But the professional in me has to remain 'unconvinced' . . . as in not having enough hard evidence to 'convince' a prosecutors office and on from there, a jury of his peers. Your own questions about the lack of electric torches among the security personnel, about the 'lack' of rumors that I cited at our other meetings . . . plus there can be no doubt that Getty is still involved in organized crime. But beyond that, we are dealing with all the employees of the center, all potential witnesses to _something_ . . . and almost all of them members of one of the trade unions—"

Kim's eyes narrowed as if sudden understanding came to her. "And the trade unions are all controlled by the organization?"

But her eyes widened again when Grippe shook his head. "Some of the unions are, but the rest are, very simply put; an extremely tight fraternity that does not mingle with outsiders nor cooperate with any kind of official investigation that might not be in their own best interest. Questioning our 'owlcelots' would be more productive in these circumstances."

"Even the security officers?" Ron asked in disbelief. Grippe nodded.

"They are much more concerned with their own 'job' security. Such jobs with the kind of pay and benefits they receive are very hard to come by . . . especially considering how little actual work they do."

The two teens looked at each other as if trying to figure out just what to do next. But Grippe answered that question for them by looking at his watch and saying, "I'm afraid that I find that at my age; being manhandled by a gorilla followed by hours in a small pitch-black dungeon like room smelling strongly of sweating gorilla to be rather taxing. We can continue this in the morning with fresh vigor."

With that he stood up and started to gather the plates on the table, Ron hastily retrieving Rufus who was curled up sound asleep on his own completely licked clean plate. The two teens helped Grippe with the clean up as he chatted, "the guest shower has linens for the both of you. Kimberly can have the guest bed, Ronald, I laid out pillows and such for you on the couch in the den."

They bid Grippe good night and went to their chambers.

"Ron," Kim asked quietly with a beckoning. He followed her into the bath, already assuming what she wanted. Reaching the counter in front of the mirror, she gathered all of her hair into one hand even as she peeled off her mission shirt off as far as her forearms, her back as always to her boyfriend. She held her arms, tangled with hair and mission shirt to the side of her head, exposing her t-backed sports bra clad back to Ron who gently touched her there—

"I don't think the bruising is any worse KP." Ron's hands then smoothly/gently worked up into her hairline where he found the 'egg' from her hard landing—

"Oowwwww" she whimpered.

"Sorry," was the sincere reply. After a moment, Ron continued, "if it's still that tender, KP, we might want to consider telling your mom?"

Kim snorted, turning into the mirror to look at the still developing bruising on the arm where she was grabbed and thrown in the darkness of the main room. The shoulder joint was sore as well. She didn't answer Ron however; she knew that they would be called unequivocally home if her mom got just a hint of her injuries.

With another snort, Kim brought her forearms, and the back of her mission shirt up close to her face. While the small tears were barely visible, more sensed than apparent was the spot of blood splatter on the material. All of her own blood, of which there had been very little, had done nothing more than stain the 't' of her sports bra. So this blood definitely had to be from the creature she had collided with in mid air, Wade's confirmation only making it—

"Do you think it was hurt bad?" asked Ron's quietly.

Kim blanked for a moment as the true meaning of Ron's question was so off-kilter with anything they had been discussing . . . but now that she thought about it—

She then turned to her boyfriend, wonder and amazement in her eyes. "Ron! That's brilliant!" She was instantly pulling her mission top back on, already heading out of the bathroom door towards Grippe's room—

Leaving Ron standing open mouthed; totally unaware of whatever it was that he had been 'brilliant' about _this_ time.

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"Ya know," and the 'frightened whine' factor was very strong in Ron's tone, 'why is it that European cities always look so much spookier when you're trespassing in pitch black back alleys around buildings that you've been told to stay out of—"

Kim managed a grim chuckle as the two of them continued to creep through . . . "then you should blame yourself for that thought Ron. If it wasn't for that moment of cognitive genius, we wouldn't be here."

"If I knew what you just said KP I might be able to say yes or no—"

Ron then stopped as Kim's hand came up to halt him. They had finally reached a place where the angle was right. Kim already had the hairdryer out and Ron's head was snapping around impossibly fast in all directions, looking out for trouble even as the charge sent the grapnel flying.

Moments later, the two of them were on the roof, Kim, seeing all the scaffolding, walkways, hulking A/C units and wires, taking a moment to pull up and tie her hair back into a ponytail before the two of them made their way to the area where all the repair work was being done. It took only a couple of minutes to locate what they were looking for. Kim nodded to Ron.

Ron looked down into his hands, "okay Rufus, you understand what it is that we're looking for?" The Naked Mole Rat gave a nod and a salute with an "uh huh."

Ron lowered his hands to the open ventilation port with a quiet, "now be careful—" and the little guy was gone, skittering in through the vents. The thin but incredibly strong line attached to his harness snapping in through the opening after him.

The two teens watched for a moment, then their eyes met, that one look enough to convey to each other their mutual concern for their friend. Then Kim took in a deep, deep breath before sighing, "now we wait."

The two of them sat under a large roof unit of some kind, almost lost to each other in the hole of blackness, the only contact between then was the rubbing of their hips together. Kim looked out at the blue black of a night sky washed with city lights, part of her mind still picking at all the loose or missing pieces of the puzzle they were in.

The other—

Kim tried to push those aside for now. She had to remain alert. They _were_ trespassing and it wasn't as if they were at a villains lair where trespassing could be forgiven for the good of the mission. As it was, Grippe had been forced to park his car _blocks_ away as to avoid being seen by an employee going for a midnight snack or a graveyard security officer arriving for his shift.

The other thoughts—

"Ron?"

She felt him stir beside her . . .

"Ron?"

"KP," came his whispered reply, "I thought you said that we should keep the talk down?'

"T—that's just it Ron, other than . . . when I was so . . . upset in that diner . . . . . . w—we . . . haven't been talking."

There was no reply.

"Ron . . . I said I was sorry."

There was a long moment—

"Yes you did," came Ron's low reply. "But it still hurts KP."

Another long moment. "I—" she started to say—but he interrupted her.

"I try to forget about it KP, I try to ignore it . . . and usually I'm eventually cool with it . . . but sometimes . . . you can be so selfish." She felt the sting through her heart . . . but there was a flash of ire as well. She opened her mouth again to respond but again he got it out first.

"And I know that I'm not anywhere near cool when it comes acting that way myself. Heck, I know that I've blow it as far as selfish several times but . . . " and Ron's tone became 'rockhard hurt', "but at least I like to think that I've never done anything like that to you intentionally on a really personal level—"

"How about when you gave up being my campaign manager and switched over to Prince Wally?" she asked sharply, not believing that Ron wasn't willing to simply accept her apology . . . wasn't ready to simply forgive her as he usually did . . . that he was actually accusing her of—

There was a long moment of silence before her boyfriends voice, now very tight said, "there's a difference between an election for class president and getting locked in a broom closet because my being around would crimp your style with your 'crush'. There's a difference between my wanting to spend time with friends doing things you don't like and when we are together; being told directly, sharply and oh so menacingly that such and such an evening out with just the two of us was most definitely not a 'date'."

"You think so," Kim shot back, with a matching rise in her voice—Ron was actually arguing with her? "Then what do you call having my family take all the time and expense of taking you with us on vacation to Florida and the only thing you can think of once your there is chasing the big-chested college co-eds around while I'm fighting for my life with Drakken in a swamp or that I call in some of my favors to try and get you to be maybe like a little more appealing to other girls and you blow it all out of proportion because you didn't have a clue as to what—"

"Yeah!" came the hard but firm tone back at her from out of the darkness. "You called in favors to try and make me something that I wasn't . . . but I'll admit that I went along with it because I was trying to figure myself out at that time. But how about the fact that after 'your makeover of me', that you got all bent out of shape when the other girls liked what they saw. That was a _real_ big favor that you did me."

"You didn't seem to mind it all that much," Kim shot back in return. "After all, you did the same thing yourself when you tired that 'bad boy' stunt. Just because you started it made it different huh? Everything I tried to do to help you didn't count?"

"And look where that led!!" he hissed back as if not believing what he was hearing. "I wasn't being myself! That's why it didn't work. But at least the bad boy thing was something _I_ did! Not something that you led me by the nose to do! And that doesn't change the fact that you kept getting hostile anytime any girl had any interest in me."

"Did not!" she snapped back with considerable heat.

"Did too!" he shot back.

"Did not!" she retorted, completely blown away by the fact that Ron was fighting her this way. Who did he think he—

"And just what would you call the sitch of green-eyed jelling over Yori when we were looking for Sensei? Monique said that you were really close to losing it." Ron asked in a hurt tone.

"You think?" was Kim's sarcastic reply. "Monique didn't know what she was talking about . . . and she shouldn't get into yours and mines business. And right back at cha . . . how about the fact that I didn't do anything to get in the way when Tara was interested in you?"

In the dark, Kim could see that Ron was shaking his head as if with disbelief. "I _didn't know_ that Tara was interested in me. If you knew, why didn't you give me some kind of clue? Some kind of help? Kim; I'm not the brightest bulb in the house. I _helped_ you with Josh! A little return for everything I did for the two of you would have been nice!"

"All I've ever tried to do is HELP you Ron but you were too DENSE to—"

"KP!" Ron hissed causing her to slap a hand over her mouth which had gotten way too loud—

The two of them became one with the shadows as there was a faint 'thump' as if someone was walking over some of the simple wood bridges that spanned between the parts of the complex. It was coming their way.

Fortunately, the steps never came too close and soon, after some haphazard wandering around, faded away back into the distance. But in the meantime, Kim had gotten a hold of her temper, realizing that she was in a real poor position to blame Ron for anything from their past considering what she had done in the present (let alone events in the past that Ron had just oh so unerringly pointed out).

In fact—

In fact . . . she had completely ignored the little voice screaming deep down inside her, the same voice which had impotently been screaming each and every time something had happened to Ron . . . all those times where she had refused to step in and stand up for him or stop the abuse.

The suddenly realization hit Kim like a kick to the stomach. She was instantly horrified that she had let her guilt, anger, fatigue and insecurity cause her temper to take control after everything she had already done, after all the damage she had caused, with all the bad feelings that _she_ had brought into their relationship . . . in a conversation that _she_ had initiated to try and make things right. A conversation that _she_ had started and that Ron had tired to tell her honestly about how he felt about the whole rotten sitch _she_ had created!

"Ron—" she started again, hoping that the contriteness in her whisper conveyed how sorry she was, how appalled she was, how completely humiliated, how totally _wrong_ she was at what she had just done.

"I love you Kim," and the hurt and the sorrow and the anger and the pain just filled Ron's voice, "but there are times when your Blue Fox personality just gets out of control. This is one of them. And the fact that either you can't see or _wont_ see what's wrong between us right now just—" his voice trailed off.

Kim felt herself die inside. For every fiber of her being told her that he was right, and it was her own stubborn reluctance to admit that she was wrong in _anything_ that was killing their relationship . . . she couldn't even admit it to herself let alone the boy she was suppose to be in love with, the boy she should be able to admit _anything_ about herself to . . .

"Let's just not talk," was the angry/serious growl out of the darkness at her, effectively ending any chance of conversation or reconciliation.

Kim's head sunk to her chest, knowing that in this instance, all the drama was oh so her fault.

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Kim for the next however long, allowed herself to flounder in the total silence between the two of them. Normally she always stood right up and accepted responsibility for anything she did but now . . . she was literally wallowing in what could be called typical teenage rationalization, alternately blaming Ron, Monique, her 'rents and in the extreme, even Felix and Rufus for the hurt, angry, confused wall that was currently between her and her boyfriend. And that was the worst . . .

Deep inside, inside that little core of insecurity . . . she knew that she was the only one to blame . . . but that stubborn part, that part that couldn't admit failure or of being wrong to anything or anybody other than an authority figure (of which Ron was most definitely NOT) yelled and griped inside her that it had to be someone/something else's fault. She was Kim Possible, things like this didn't happen to her—

During that same period, she didn't think that Ron moved so much as a single muscle although she knew that he should be getting stiff from sitting in one position too long. the hurt/guilty/humiliated part wanted to reach out and embrace him . . . tell him just how sorry she was—

The other part wanted him to stew—

And she just wasn't sure . . . which part was really in control.

Then there was a sudden sharp 'clang' that almost made the both of them jump out of their skin. Ron jerked forward, grabbing the fine line that had been slowly, intermittently uncoiling in his lap. He held it for a moment . . . then—

"Two tugs," Ron whispered, already starting to draw the line back in.

Kim kept silent. There was no way of knowing at this point if Rufus had found what it was that she had thought they would find until Ron pulled everything back in. But at the same time, she firmly pushed all her other conflict to the back of her brain, fighting to get her head back into the game.

Kim bit her lip in anticipation/frustration at the slow pace that Ron was bringing Rufus back in. She knew that there was no other choice considering the possibilities of their hypothesis. It still seemed like several forevers before she heard scrambling/scraping in the vent. Ron abruptly hunched down at the mouth of the vent, motions matching the actions of his gathering something into his arms. At the same time, Kim could see Rufus's silhouette suddenly appear on Ron's shoulder.

"Let's go KP!"

In moments, they were back at the edge of the roof, a minute after that, they were on the ground in the alley. "This way Ron," Kim directed with a hand on her boyfriends shoulder in the darkness to get him and his load oriented down the alleyway.

As they worked their way out through the back alleys, the part of Kim's mind where she had shoved all of her 'issues' marveled at the fact that despite the fact that the two of them were oh so definitely cranked to the max at each other, that there was more than a very real possibility that their entire relationship was in danger of falling apart was the fact . . . that when they were in mission-mode, they worked like a finely oiled machine. Sometimes she would be ahead of Ron, breaking trail in the darkness, other times like now, she would be trailing him to make sure they weren't being followed. Ron on the other hand, carrying his burden, was steady and direct, moving forward toward his goal with that firm Ronness determination. They truly were a team.

It gave her some hope that they would be able to work their problems all out . . . but she was already dreading what was probably going to be a very grim and silent plane ride home . . .

All thoughts were banished from her mind when what seemed to be a pair of huge hands suddenly enveloped her from behind causing what little light there was to go out.

A moment later, a blow caused the lights behind Kim Possible's eyes to go out as well.

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Ron stopped at the mouth of the alley. The street ahead was fairly well lit. It was just down two blocks and around a corner to where Grippe was parked. He gave a quick glance each way. He had been concentrating on trying to be as gentle as he could with the burden he was carrying in his arms. It had hardly moved at all since he had pulled it out of the vent as well as being silent . . . except for what might have been an occasional tiny squeal of pain . . .

"Ready KP?" he asked, waiting for her go signal—

It didn't come. After a moment, Ron looked back over his shoulder—

His girl . . . was nowhere to be seen.

Ice gripped his insides. He started to turn, started to step back into the alley—

There was a tiny squeal of pain from the bundle in his arms—

_KP! Where are you_? he mentally yelled.

There was no answer—and right now, there wouldn't be.

Every fiber of his being screamed inside Ron to go back and find Kim. But the fact that she had been taken without a fight, _heck, without a sound even_ told him that it was just as possible that if he went back, that he would be taken too.

And since he was carrying in his arms the thing that might break the whole case open—

Tears sprang into Ron's eyes as he once again turned back to the street and Grippe's waiting car.

_Hang on KP. I'm coming right back . . . and you had better be okay when I do . . . or I'll really be mad!_


	10. Grippe Takes Ron InHand Kim Hangs Around

"—you are insane lad, you can not go charging back in without any idea of how Kimberly was taken! The odds heavily favor the probability that you will be captured as well!"

"_You_ don't understand!" Ron shot back hotly, "that's the way Kim and I work. I get captured or she gets captured, the other of us goes in after . . . gets captured . . . and after we're together again, we always manage to bust our way out, usually capturing the bad guys in the process."

Han Grippe stared at Ron as if he _was_ insane . . . but after a moment he shook his head as if trying to reconnect his thoughts.

"Be that as it may lad," the Englishman continued with a visible effort to put the concept aside, "as desperately as you and I wish we could focus solely on the dilemma of the young Ms. Possible, I'm afraid that fate has played us another card that we are bound to deal with first."

"Nothing is more important than trying to find Kim," Ron growled back with considerable heat.

Grippe's expression was that of a man of experience holding the moral high ground. With a slow, deliberate shake of his head, his finger moving to point out, "the whole idea of this . . . raid attempted by you and your lady . . . was to see if _this_ was injured in the collision with Kimberly . . . and if recovering it would lead you to the hiding place of Amy Hall!"

Ron's eyes dropped to where Grippe's finger was pointing; to the blanket filled box on the floor between them, the box now holding the mewing-in-pain burden which Ron had carried through the dark alleys, a burden that had kept him from immediately going back for his Best Friend/Girlfriend—

One of the owlcelots wings was very badly broken, broken in the mid-air collision with Kim's back in the blackness of the main room. The wing had in fact broken with such force that the bones had ruptured the skin of the wings causing the blood splatter and tears in the back of Kim's mission shirt.

Although it had been Ron's offhand comment about hoping that 'it' hadn't been badly injured, it had been Kim who because of his comment realized that if it had been a flying owlcelot that she had collided with . . . and if the damaged to her exponetly (the word had made Ron's head hurt) was transferred to the smaller, more fragile creature depicted in Wade's simulation, then it was very likely that the damage to the creature was certainly bad enough to keep the owlcelot from flying to the opening in the air vents and escaping with the rest of its kind. Kim then stated the next logical fact was that the thus injured creature would probably be hiding in a small pocket or corner somewhere around the floor area . . . with a lesser possibility that it might have had enough strength to climb up into the lighting or camera scaffolding where it had escaped notice during the search of the room.

In any case, the best member of Team Possible to search small pockets and corners in large dark rooms was of course Rufus, assisted by his nose, working to find the strange scent that he had first detected coming from the air vents just prior to the attack when the owlcelots were making their approach. Rufus wore a custom made harness pulling the thin line which Ron had been tending carefully down through the all ductwork, retracing the owlcelots route until he was in the main room. Rufus had then abandoned the harness while conducting his search, retrieving it only when he had located his quarry. Rufus had then strapped the harness onto the injured owlcelot and given the tug signal for Ron to pull in the line.

Rufus had then acted as guide and grip, making sure the whimpering beast was not caught or jammed into any tight joints or sharp corners during the return journey, which had been the primary reason that Ron took such care as he pulled the line in. As it was, the journey had been obviously rough on the creature—

Ron watched the limp, panting-with-open-mouth beast with confused disjointed thoughts. He didn't have any real idea what Kim had intended to do with it if they did find and rescue it other than using it somehow to locate DNAmy's lair. Ron could assume that she would have Wade do something that would give them the needed clue, but Kim had the Kimmunicator with her . . . and yes, he could contact Wade by cellphone but there would be no sensor ability.

And now Kim was missing . . . and every fiber of Ron's being screamed to go find her . . . if only he had a clue as to where to start looking, although to him, as he had just told Grippe, returning to the alley and getting captured had been his first inclination.

Unless . . . the clue was really and truly in front of him.

Still . . . the need to go find Kim was almost overwhelming him—

"You need to help it Ronald—"

It took a moment for Grippe's words to actually sink in . . . and another moment after that for his head to come up in order to look at the adult across from him with incredulous disbelief.

"Wha—what do you mean?" Ron asked, not having any idea what Grippe was thinking or talking about.

Then Ron became very uncomfortable for Grippe's eyes seemed to peel his brain back a couple of layers before the older man finally said, "you really don't understand do you?"

Ron made a clueless shrug of acknowledgement.

Grippe's face contorted for several moments as if trying to find the right way to say what it was that he had too—

"I am afraid that I have to admit that I have . . . viewed you and your life young Ronald with a certain amount of . . . curiosity."

Ron started to feel even more uncomfortable . . . the mad running away skills started to sing in his veins, but he also needed to understand whatever it was that Grippe was trying to tell him.

"For one your age," Grippe continued softly, "and factoring in the obvious that you actually started much younger . . . that is . . . when you first started to accompany Kimberly on her . . . missions . . . it seems that you have . . . many latent . . . talents . . . and one of those many talents . . . that being the one we must address in the here and now . . . is your talent with . . . the animal kingdom."

Ron stared at Grippe for a moment, then closed his eyes and violently shook his head. When he finished, it hadn't done any good. He was still confused . . . and now his head hurt as well. "Ah, yeah . . . like . . . so . . . and how . . like . . . does that have to do with anything?"

"Think about it Ronald," Grippe's tone now was both admonishing as well as encouraging . . . like a teacher gently correcting their star pupil, "think about all of your . . . talent when it comes to animals . . . other than monkeys of course." Ron winced at the word and Grippe gave a nod of both apology and understanding before going on gravely. "You have a pet that is not a pet. He is an animal to be sure, but as he just so recently demonstrated, he is amazing and unique and an integral part of you and Kimberly's 'team'. Next we might mention you're affinity . . . and compatibility . . . again, despite your discomfort with the singular symbol of the style . . . with the strange and mysterious ways of Ti-Shing-Pec-Whar . . . a level of affinity and compatibility that my very own esteemed cousin could not acquire for himself without taking the drastic measures of having his own physical form mutated to that of the monkey."

Grippe shock his head as if he more than disproved his cousins actions even as he said, "I have read a number of confidential reports regarding your amazing if yet latent talents and abilities regarding the art and style Ronald. Monty _had_ to change his entire body in order to maximize his receptiveness of it's powers—"

Grippe's eyes went narrow . . . appraising . . . "and it is my understanding Ronald that such a lurid and obscene act was not necessary for you . . . for you apparently already have the affinity and compatibility . . . if not yet having the ability—"

Ron stared at Grippe, hearing him, trying to understand, trying to ignore how much this little man knew about things that he didn't even realize about himself—

A small smile came to the adult's features. "As I said, due to your . . . involvement with that same cousin, I . . . have followed your adventures rather . . . closely . . . and I just recently read a . . . different confidential report on how you were able to befriend a giant mutated cockroach . . . something which I understand . . . Kimberly found to be totally beyond her ability to fathom . . . or apparently stomach . . . "

A small light seemed to go on in Ron's head, he now _looked_ at Grippe (his Roness successfully shifting all of his other sudden worries and fears about all of Grippes 'confidential reports' to the trash bin of his brain).

"So you're like . . . trying to tell me . . . that maybe—" and he looked down at the half dead creature in the box between them.

"As much as you want to go after Kimberly right now Ronald," and there was a firm 'fatherly' tone in Grippe's voice, "there in the box before you is a living being in obvious great pain. It can not be ignored nor forgotten and as we have by whatever means acquired it . . . we are now also responsible for it . . . it's well-being . . . possibly its very life . . . and I'm afraid that it is not something that we just take into the emergency room at the veterinarian's office."

"You said 'we'," Ron stammered as all the ramifications (at least the ones he could recognize), grasping at the straw of the word 'we'. "Can you do something for it?"

Grippe shook his head grimly. "I don't think that you want what I can do for it Ron. I can only end its pain . . . permanently . . . "

Shock roared through Rom at Grippes meaning. He looked back down into the box, at a loss for anything that he could possibly—

No—

"No—" Ron said, face and voice suddenly tight, "Kim comes first. I know that she wouldn't hesitate if—"

"Then young Ronald," and Grippe's tone was that of ice, freezing the blond boys insides, "just what would your Kimberly do with it if your situations were reversed? Would she just abandon this beast? Would she do nothing for its pain?"

"No!" Ron wailed, the agony of it all going through him. _Why can't it just be simple like it is when we're fighting Drakken or Dementor?!_

"If you and Kimberly continue in this lifestyle you have joined her in," Grippe's tone was hard, for Ron instinctively knew that the older man was now telling him 'a hard truth', "there will come a time when you might have to make a decision Ronald. You will be confronted with what is called a 'no-win' situation. . . and you will have to decide which of the losing possibilities might be considered the lesser of all evils. What if that decision causes you, makes you, _demands_ of you . . . to sacrifice another life for the greater good? Any life, a strangers . . . yours . . . Kimberly's?"

Ron closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about it—_I'm just the sidekick. I can't make that kind of decision! Kim makes all the decisions like that—_

A mournful whimper of pain brought Ron's eyes back open. He looked down into the box . . . to find those huge owl eyes staring at him—

As if pleading—

_You're now . . . my responsibility aren't you? Just like I'm starting to take responsibility for my studies and my training and my attitude about how I have to be if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with Kim._

Ron took a deep breath . . . and . . . as much as he believed that he was wrong . . . as much as it hurt . . . he made a decision . . . hoping that Kim would understand.

"Do what you can for it Ronald," was Grippe's gentle admonition, recognizing, acknowledging, praising the fact that Ron had made the right decision— "I think that you will do better that you think you are capable of. Talk to it . . . I would wager that it would understand considering its origin even if it is unable to communicate back . . . at least . . . directly."

Ron's head snapped back up toward Grippe again. "What do you mean?" he wanted to know.

There was a hopeful look in Grippe's eye. "It is not a lion young Ronald . . . but one can hope . . . that if we . . . through you . . . do this poor beast a favor by taking away its pain . . . a thing not unlike pulling the thorn out from its paw . . . that at a later time . . . if just might return the favor . . . and lead us to your Kimberly—"

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Kim came awake—and it was dark

. . . real dark

. . . the locked inside of a small windowless/lightless room dark . . . her feet dangling free in space, her back, legs and the knot of her ponytail against a cold wall with her arms stretched high over her head, wrists obviously tied and suspended from something above her, wrenching her shoulders, arms, sockets—

That kind of dark—

In other words, sitch oh so usual.

She wondered just how long she had been 'out'—

. . . just where she was—

. . . just how long would she have to wait until the 'bad guy' came in to deliver his 'speech'.

. . . just where in the heck was Ron—

Fortunately for her agonized upper body . . . she didn't have to wait long.

_Very_ bright lights came on, instantly blinding her. At the same moment, she heard the scrape of the door . . .

She didn't hear any footsteps . . . which along with the fact that her first impressions through pained watery eyes was that a mountain was moving in front of her—

"Why am I not surprised?" Kim growled under her breath—

She was rewarded with a 'wap!' across her face and a snarled, "don't be impertinent," from the moving mountain in front of her.

Kim's eyes were really watering right now and although it didn't feel like Getty drew blood, one cheek and side of the mouth was definitely stinging their way into fat-lipped numbness. She looked up at his face, her features defiant despite the tears in her eyes.

Getty shook his head as if he couldn't believe that she was actually trying to intimidate him. "Another word from your insolent mouth and I will break at least a part of your face."

Kim felt a . . . flutter of anxiety inside. She could tell that he really meant what he said.

Getty watched her for another moment, then apparently satisfied that she was properly cowed—

"I need to know just who in your government allows you to do these . . . strange, outlandish things that you do?"

Kim . . . 'blinked', and it took almost a whole moment for her to really understand what it was that he had asked. It didn't take as long for her to give an answer. "Who in the government lets me . . . I'm not a government agent or anything. What gave you that idea?"

Getty shrugged. "I really did not expect an answer so I am not disappointed; and the true fact is that it really doesn't matter. I will however ask the question again from a different reference." He stopped for a moment as if reorganizing his thoughts.

"If your government," Getty began again, "was contacted in order to be told that you are being held hostage for the 'precious items' that we were . . . either not able to seize or those that we were not able to remove from the center, who would be the best person or organization to lay our claims to in order for your government to put the maximum amount of pressure on _my_ government to resolve the crisis?"

Kim now stared at him with open-mouthed disbelief. "You're going to hold _me_ hostage for the designer clothing that didn't get out of the building _and_ the diamonds and jewels that Falsetto Jones failed to steal? Are you crazy? Number one—all those items, both the clothing and the jewelry have been returned to their respective design houses and owners and—," Kim suddenly stopped as her brain fully engaged into gear, her eyes narrowed in response and her tone became accusatory. "But . . . you're now the head of security for the center . . . you already _know_ those facts . . . and yet you're asking me . . . which has to mean . . . that you really have something else in mind."

Getty looked down at her with a certain amount of grudging acknowledgement. "Very good . . . for a spoiled, insolent non-conforming female brat from that corrupt cesspool called America. As I told you when we first met that your reputation preceded you . . . and it both sickens and disgusts me." Getty then turned his massive side to her as if she was unworthy to be talked to face-to-face.

"I will be direct," his tone short and clipped as a superior speaking to a dunce. "If you answered my question truthfully, it would help with the pressure that we would like to have placed on our government . . . but such pressure would only speed the results we seek. Our plans can be completed without involving your government masters."

Getty stopped and with careful movements, took out and lit a cigarette, looking for all the world like a model (okay—a _really big_ model) from one of those classy unisex fashion mags that Monique was always perusing when business was slow at Club Banana. After a long-slow drag, he continued, "the demands I just spoke of will be made . . . not to your government . . . but to the management, staff and board of the center. The Board, which will have the ultimate decision in the matter . . . will be collectively horrified of course and will argue intensely among themselves. Chief among those who will argue against giving in to . . . our demands . . . will be old Signor Descont . . . and he will rightly and properly use the arguments that you are and were a typical smugly superior, over-hyped, liberal and liberated young American teenage media-made joke who should have kept to her place as a unwed, uncontrolled, uncouth, female brat; one who is better suited to the role meant for all women; that of a subservient childbearing female who knows and understands her place."

A shark like grin now came to Getty's face even if he still refused to look at Kim. "Things will be handled to make sure that neither the authorities of the city nor the national government is made aware of these demands prior to they're being . . . refused by the Board of the center." Getty then snorted. "Not that Descont really matters. He will just be the leading voice. Influence by my . . . organization on certain other members of the board will ensure that the decision we want is made."

The face changed again, to a caricature of regret, "I'm afraid that after that . . . the very dead body of Signorina Kimberly Possible will appear in some suitable very public place . . . and the media frenzied questions will start being asked."

He snorted in a satisfied way. "Myself and my . . . associates should actually be thankful to both that . . . _un figlio di puttana_ Grippe . . . and to you Signorina, this plan has been in the works for more than a decade, all it was waiting for was the proper set of circumstances to allow it to blossom. The slow careful way we infiltrated the various parts of the establishment kept even a _testa de cazzo_ like Polizia from realizing that it was happening."

There was then another snort, but this one was disgusted. "Now, I suppose that in all fairness, that I should at least acknowledge the unknowing participation of the others in the outlandish, over planned, egotistical typically American scheme that got us to the place that we are now." Another heartfelt sigh accompanied by his flicking of a cigarette ash in her direction. "It is a shame really. If Jones had in fact managed to obtain all of the diamonds and jewels, the plan was for us to kill him and recover them, returning them to their owners as a demonstration that no mere thief from a 'foreign' country can dare offend an event that is nominally under our . . . organizations 'protection'."

Getty took another 'self-satisfied' drag before continuing, "the woman/child Hall is of course no consequence. She will certainly blunder into some other stupid event that will cause her to be caught at which time those . . . overblown children's toys will be recovered." Getty's face now grew hard. "Unfortunately, the . . . one with the clothing fixation . . . has too many . . . influential protectors . . . but they and she are at this point, also of no consequence."

The shark grin came back. "Now . . . with your death Signorina . . . and the revelation that it's cause was because of the refusal of the Board of the center to submit to blackmail _without_ the notification of the authorities or the government or even an advisement to the foreign government of the kidnapped party and of course; you being that same foreign citizen and all . . . all of the esteemed members of the Board that made that fateful decision along with the entire management and staff of the center and the associated schools of design and arts will be forced out in shame . . .with us . . . the department heads of staff and chief assistants being brought in to the top positions to take up control . . . "

A chuckle now escaped his lips. "And with that control . . . will be _control_ . . . of the records and books and the auditors, of the contracts and the negotiations and of the prices and conditions to be set and met—"

Suddenly Getty looked sideways/down at Kim. "Are you in pain Signorina Possible?"

That question was so sudden and unexpected that it caught Kim off guard—"what—?" was all she could manage.

"There is so little of you. I'm quite surprised that I didn't break you when—"

Kim's look became angry again. "You're the one who grabbed and threw me in the main room during the theft attempt! It must have been like Grippe said—the other center employees saw you but didn't say anything!"

Getty shrugged. "They know well their place, which could not be said for you. I am also the one who caught you in the alley running away from the center as well. Your worthless male friend's little rat was seen by the night watchman. I do not know what you were after and I consider that the reputation that 'preceded you' is mostly the hype of the American press. However, it was still a better job I think to take you into our arms than your sorry boy, regardless of whatever it was that your boy was carrying." A non-smile smile then came to Getty's face, "so, once again, are you in pain?"

"You are sooooo low," Kim growled back, not caring if it got her smacked—

The shark smile replaced the non-smile. "Enjoy it while you can. For it will become worse . . . much worse right before . . . your end. A young American female's body totally beaten and abused in any and all ways will create so much more of the required sensation in the international press—."

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In the early hours of the morning, Han Grippe checked all of his security systems before unlocking and opening the door. Inspector Polizia slipped through quickly with a word of thanks. The Inspector took a glance around as he removed his gloves and coat. He then turned to Grippe who was just finishing relocking the door. "Any changes since you briefed me on the phone?" he asked quietly. Grippe gave a negative shake of his head even as he waved his hands to usher Polizia farther into the room, gathering his guest's things as they went.

"Young Stoppable," Grippe said as he laid his guests thing aside, "has been on my international line with their support person for the last little bit. I don't know at this point if any progress has been made on the search for Hall's lab or not." The two men moved into the mouth of the hallway to the rear and stopped. Polizia looked questioning at Grippe who was just staring towards the room in back.

"Quite a lad," Grippe murmured with a nod of his head in the same direction he was looking. "On balance . . . from what I've seen once he made his decision and settled down, the fact that his lady is the one in danger has caused any and all of his tendencies toward . . . didn't Getty say buffoonery, to submerge under something much more . . . focused . . . and dare I say it . . . dangerous."

Polizia nodded knowingly. "As much I have heard through my contacts with Global Justice."

Grippe returned the nod with one of his own. "My sources in Her Majesties Service say much of the same thing."

Polizia took a slow deep breath before giving forth the thought, "the question however remains—is it enough to carry him . . . and this investigation through to success?"

Grippe sighed. "That my friend . . . is indeed . . . the question of the hour."


	11. A Case Of Two Teens Being 'On The Spot'

Dawn was breaking and a thin sliver of sunlight penetrated the drawn shades to strike Han Grippe on his cheek as he dosed on the couch in his villas main room. In reaction to that sliver, an eye creaked open for a survey of his immediate area. Once that was accomplished, he stirred, accompanied by several thoughts on how he was too old for this kind of a thing and did anything _else_ happen while he was asleep?

Grippe really couldn't be too sure of the last. At one point in the early hours of the morning, he'd awoken to find young Ronald ransacking his refrigerator with frantic purpose but before Grippe could rise and take a hand, the boy apparently found what it was that he was seeking and had dashed back to the guest room . . . leaving his host to clean up the remnants of the cyclone that had hit his kitchen, wondering all the while (after a quick inventory) as to what could an American teenage boy do with two uncooked breasts of chicken . . . and after a long moment, deciding firmly that he really did not want to know.

At least Grippe reflected, there (apparently) hadn't been any explosions or other 'physical' disasters during the remainder of the night. He knew all too well however that mental ones could well be another matter . . . and could easily explain why young Ronald was still so quiet and hidden.

So, it was with a certain sense of apprehension that Grippe started down the hall, reaching the door in question and silently pushing it carefully open.

At which time, he allowed a small gentle smile to brake out onto his face. The . . . young man in question was curled up into a tight ball on the floor, the limp figure of a naked mole rat sprawled out on his ribs on the 'up' side. But it was the thing that the young lads body was curled around that made Grippe's smile so relieved.

Grippe reached in to grasp the knob on the door in order to pull in closed again, when the pink naked form on top of Ron suddenly snapped its head up into an alert pose. Grippe met Rufus eyes and waited until he was sure that the mole rat recognized him and sighed when after a moment, Rufus gave him a smile and a thumbs up.

But the movement of his friend atop of him was enough to cause Ron to stir. The blond boys eyes came open and looked blurrily at Grippe, who felt a deep sense of pity and understanding at the air of loss and worry that was so visible in young Ronald's look. Grippe wondered if the lad, despite his exhaustion, had had trouble going to sleep due to his concern for Kimberly . . . and wondered as well as to if the dreams been bad while the boy had slept.

Grippe stood his ground as Ron slowly pushed himself up (Rufus making a leap over to the ottoman in front of the easy chair). As Ron did so, the curled figure of the owlcelot made a typical catlike stretch and head tuck . . . something that looked so particular when the head being tucked was that of an owl.

As Grippe watched, Ron, still on his knees (making his head almost level with Grippe's own), carefully picked up the beast and gently moved it over to be deposited back into the blanket filled box. As this was done, Grippe noted with interest the fact that the beasts torso was heavily wrapped with the sheets he had provided, effectively immobilizing those damaged wings into their 'at rest' position around the creatures body.

That task done, Ron started to get to his feet. Grippe then stepped further into the room, looking about, trying not to feel overly annoyed at the shredded remnants of sheets, the blood stained towels, the pieces of tape strewn about, the . . . remains of the cold chicken breasts from his refrigerator stuffed into the package it had come in, the pages of scrawled notes strewn about the floor, the . . . Grippe came to a very sudden stop both physically and mentally as he saw the remains of—

"I say—" . . . was all that he _could_ say as he bent down and picked up . . . what was left of . . . his best Number Two driver. All that was left was the handle and the actual club head . . . the entire shaft between the two separated parts was missing.

"Oh . . . ah . . . yeah . . . I can explain—"

Grippe looked up to see a very red faced Ron in front of him, a wince that almost looked physically painful on his young face.

Grippe could not describe what was on his own face, but incredulous disbelief probably came close. He allowed that look to ask the silent question.

"Ah well," Ron started now rubbing forcefully at the back of his neck, "I used your computer (he waved his other hand over at Grippe's own PC atop the desk in the corner) to set up a link through Wade to veterinary specialist. The specialist helped me along with getting Spots wings—"

"Spot?" Grippe couldn't help but interrupt considering because his brain didn't need something else to jam its gears into total lock—

Ron's eyes seemed to be searching for a way of escape even through there was none, "well, (and Ron's hands kind of made waving motions at the owlcelot in the box) he's got spots and those spots on the furry feathers we found were kinda what helped us figure out what he was and it seemed like a good name—"

"Please continue about my golf club Ronald," Grippe said in a soft . . . _very_ patient/tired tone that he hoped disguised his disorientation, denial, dismay and disbelief due to his driver—

"Ah yeah . . . anyway" Ron's hands continued to fidget, "the specialist said that I needed some very strong splints that had just a bit of flexibility in them and I found your golf bag in the closet there and you were asleep and I didn't want to bother you and I didn't know where I could get anything else like them and that one seemed perfect and I didn't think you would mind considering how important it was that we made Spot better—"

Grippe's eyes narrowed and his brow folded in thought. He looked down at the creature in the box. "How many . . . pieces of the shaft did you need Ronald."

Ron's relief as Grippe's seeming acceptance was immediate and he readily replied, "three, two underneath and one on top of the wing to give both support and strength."

Grippe's eyes narrowed further. He brought up the ends of the remnants in his hands, carefully examining just where they had been cut. He then glanced at the floor . . . looking for filings or shavings . . . and not . . . seeing anything.

"Ronald," Grippes voice was low and very, _very_ careful, a tone not lost on Ron who immediately stiffened again. "How did you manage to cut this golf clubs titanium shaft, not once, but four times . . . a completely smooth, almost polished cut it is as well . . . a cut as if made by a knife or a blade rather than a saw for there are no teeth lines in the surface of the cut and no . . . debris that I can see on the floor. . . " Grippe's eyes then came up from the remnants with a most questioning of looks, "let alone that there are no tools in this flat capable of doing such a job that _I_ know of?"

The workings of Ron's brain behind his eyes almost caused steam to come out. "Ah, well, you had a pair of scissors in the drawer over there—"

"Ronald," Grippes tone was even more . . . 'careful', "as I just said . . . there is nothing in this flat . . . there is nothing within this entire city block that I know of, with the possible exception of the car mechanics shop down the street, capable of cutting this shaft so cleanly—"

"Oh YEAH," Ron exclaimed, "that mechanic shop! Great place, they were a real help, good thing that their open all night—"

Grippe even more carefully considered pointing out to Ron that not only was the corner shop closed at night, but it had been closed all the previous day because it had been Sunday. But he could also tell that he was not going to get a straight, honest answer to his question . . .

. . . but this . . . however the means that the lad had used . . . was completely outside of _any_ of the hints or conjecture contained within the confidential reports he had reviewed on young Stoppable.

. . . a complete unknown . . .

. . . be that as it may—

_So much for a 220£ driver_ Grippe thought as he turned with a sigh, laying the remnants on one of the bookcases. "So young Ronald," and his sigh conveyed that he was nowhere near convinced but did not wish to continue the battle, "you were obviously able to render the wing unmovable and place it into a proper splint." Grippe's eyes went again to the floor. "I take it by my uncooked and yet eviscerated chicken breasts that your patient had been without food since prior to being . . . launched on his mission?"

"Yeah," Ron said, looking down into the box, all traces of his prior evasiveness and nervousness gone, "and I think that's one of the reasons why he was so weak as well. I have to hand feed the first part of it to him."

"That chicken as I said was uncooked Ronald. I hope that you took precautions against bacteria—" Grippe said a little scoldingly.

Ron gave him a sharp look back. "I'm a cook . . . and I plan on making that my career sir. I know—"

Grippe held up a stopping hand. "Just being careful Ronald. I was not sure with your haste over . . . Spot . . . and worry for Kimberly if you might not bypass safe practices."

Then as Grippe watched, with the mentioning of Kim's name, Ron seemed to sag tiredly into himself. Grippe stepped over, sliding one hand upward under one of Ron's armpits, wrapping his other around Ron's hips (as that was as high as the small man could reach) whereas Grippe guided the boy over to the easy chair into which Ron collapsed. "You must get some more rest," Grippe said firmly.

"But Kim—," Ron started.

"I may assume," Grippe continued quietly but firmly, "that your young man Wade is still actively searching for Kimberly and he has a way to contact me if he finds something?"

"Yeah but—"

"There are things that I can be doing to assist as well Ronald," and there was no nonsense in Grippes words. "I am not without resources of my own. But as you were obviously 'at it' all night, you need to rest. Let us see if we can have our options in place by the time you wake."

"But Kim needs me," Ron continued to protest despite the fact that he really did want more sleep. In fact he started to push himself up out of the chair. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep anyway. We have to get out and look for Kim!"

Grippe gave the teen a stern glare. "And just where would you look?"

"In the alleys where I last saw her. There's got to be a clue—"

"Which you would probably miss in your current state," was the firm reply. "Besides Ronald, wasn't the whole point of your excursion last night to find . . . 'Spot' (he pointed down into the box) in order that he might lead you to their lair. And," Grippes tone when even firmer as if making a point that wouldn't be backed away from, "since 'Spot is both recovering from injuries and lack of food as well as being nocturnal anyway—"

"Spot did not turn any nocks that he wasn't suppose to . . . okay" and despite being bleary, Ron actually made that sound . . . almost normal.

"Go to sleep Ronald," was all Grippe said, accompanied by a firm 'push' with both hands against Ron's hips which sent the youth crashing back down into the recliner. Grippe looked down at Rufus, pointing at Ron, "sit on him if you must faithful Mole Rat. I shall return directly."

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Pain . . .

Hunger . . .

Thirst . . .

And she had to go to the bathroom reallllllll bad . . .

Those were many of the reasons why Kim hated being captured. But she had come to another conclusion, she really _really_ hated being captured when she . . . and Ron . . . were having difficulties with each other.

It left her way to much time to think about those difficulties . . .and in this case, about how all of the fault was hers.

Yes, she so disliked the wrestling . . . but what was worse was that . . . she was the only one in their little group that did. Ron, Monique and her brother, Felix . . . and then there was the Tweebs (and that alone could be enough to send her into frothing dislike of _anything_). But still . . . it meant that because of her friends enthusiastic enjoyment of something she detested . . . it left her an . . . outsider . . . it left her . . . out there alone.

Kim had spent much of the time . . . trying to at least be honest with herself in order to come up with a reason why this bothered her so freakin much. It had taken . . . some time for the answer to come to her. Not because the answer was really hidden or deep . . . for the answer was actually very obvious . . . but the answer itself made her feel . . . uncomfortable . . . and she didn't like dealing with things like that . . . she tended to try to ignore—

But it was obvious that this particular little bit of personality quirk could not be ignored much longer, for if Kim was completely honest with herself, she was forced to admit that it was at _least_ as big a part of why she had started the whole stupid sitch as the Cuddle Buddies had been.

Even more than wrestling . . . Kim detested being 'outside of the center'. At the moment, she was trying to convince herself that it was a deep seated phobia caused by everything she had seen happen to Ron when he was on the outside of everything at school, out there alone in the Food Chain wilderness except for her friendship—

But at the same time she knew that wasn't really true either. She made herself look back and consider . . . when Monique came along with some like likes as Ron, namely greasy Naco's and the dreaded GWA . . . then Ron met Felix with his gaming . . . Ron wasn't totally dependant on her friendship any more.

And where did that lead? What happened when that circle of friends and her were found at odds with some kind of activity? The answer was right there if only she would admit it.

But, try as she might, Kim couldn't believe that it really upset her to find she was for once in a group social dynamic where she didn't have all the control, she didn't have the first/last word in what or how the group did something.

But there had been times . . .

She still cringed at the memory of how hopeless and helpless she had been when Ron and Felix had been getting ready for that marathon charity game and she had been totally floundering as far as Friday night plans, managing to make a fool of herself in front of the entire cheer squad by trying to force them into a practice, something that Bonnie had lamented with nasty sarcasm for weeks after—

The ski trip when her 'rents chaperoned and she spent the entire time dying because she couldn't control their actions—

There were other times, other incidents . . . enough to make her think that there was more than a little truth to the feeling that—

Kim knew that deep inside of her, there was a part that demanded that she be the top dog. It was a part of her that she had acknowledged and accepted . . . until now . . . when the realization had come as to whither such an attitude might just come at a cost that could not be paid. A cost toward her relationships with boys—

Josh . . . all the other boys she had dated, Kim had come to the realization that it hadn't mattered to her if they couldn't pay the price for dealing with her Alpha Female/Blue Fox personality and the life that it drove her to live . . . that extreme personality that said that she had to be that top dog at any and all costs. Did she expect Ron, who had been dealing with it for years as her best and truest friend to 'deal with it' in the same way that he had as a friend even through the two of them were suppose to be in l . . . lo . . . lov . . ?

The need to be in charge—

The need to be number one—

The pride that went with it—

The pride—

Kim knew that it, the pride, had made her do things over the years that she was less than proud of. When she thought about the things like when she sneaked into school in the middle of the night to replace all of Prince Wally's class president election posters with her own because she just couldn't tolerate the thought of an outsider like Wally 'stealing' what should have been an 'easy' election for her.

Her 'brushing off' of Ron in his bid to take the lead in some missions after his impressive performance against Gil at Lake Wannaweep was the first to come to mind. Then there was her jealousy of his talent from both the Bueno Nacho episode and the thing with Home Ec class.

Her 'war' with Bonnie, especially involving the cheer squad and all the other school activities. And one could not forget the whole thing with the prom and Eric, 'the statement' statement, her bending like a twig in the wind of the 'food chain' in almost _all_ her social issues going all the way back to chasing Josh.

All of those . . .events . . . rested primarily on her being the top dog, the one out front, the one being looked at and followed by all the rest. Kim knew that this was part of what she was, what made her try so hard to excel at everything she tired in.

She now had to wonder to herself as to if it was possible that . . . this part of her personality could hurt others . . . and in this case, that it could happen on purpose.

Was she a spoiled little girl who took her ball home with her if the game wasn't played the way she wanted it to be?

And . . . the way she berated and dissed the whole wrestling thing . . . and then tried to pawn off . . . even to herself that the whole reason why she had done it was _her_ childish fixation with a certain type of plush dolls. She couldn't deny that the Cuddle Buddies had really sucked her in even though she really didn't understand the thing that she had for Cuddle Buddies and . . . she tried to look at that aspect of it (when she thought of the others whom she knew shared her vice, Mr. Paisley and DNAmy, she stopped and shuddered, realizing that she had just mentally listed a oh so not very good track record of 'normal' people who might just be in that group)—

But at the same time . . .all the people that collected comic books or coins or . . . look at her Cousin Larry and all the garbage he collected . . . . . . (another shudder . . . on second thought she would not use him as an example) . . .

No . . . again this was an aspect of who and what she was and she had to try to face and admit that . . . and try to figure out if she was really letting it control her decisions . . . especially when the decision in question affected so much else and so many others.

Yes . . . she had gotten . . . a perverse sense of satisfaction by seeing the new fashions, especially those by Coco Banana before Monique could. But whatever 'one-upmanship' that Monique displayed in that area . . . Kim _knew_ that there was no malice in it. In fact, Monique had always taken pains to let Kim know before the stuff even hit the racks so she would have a chance at it before any other of the girls found out.

Kim remembered the 'evil' grin she had when she had seen the mission on her locker computer. Well, 'evil' was certainly what it had been . . . and not in the way she thought it would be. Instead of 'evil-cool and fun', it had turned out to be 'evil-sick and wrong'. And oh so appropriate that one of Ron's best expressions applied.

Kim didn't like to think of herself as impulsive. But she also knew that there had been times, the disaster that one Halloween was as a good example as any . . . that let her know that she could occasionally fall prey to it. Add the fact that in this instance, she had done something she shouldn't have in order to really get out of something else . . . only added to how bad it all made her look.

And right now . . . things were looking pretty bad.

Part of her was a little . . . appalled by the fact that she had no doubt that Ron was on his way to rescue her. Right now he had so many reasons to leave her hanging (as it was, in this case quite literally). It wasn't as if she hadn't broken out of traps worse than this on her own before . . . other than the fact that she had made those escapes, she had had things like some of Wade's gadgets to help her out, none of which she had brought with her on this mission because she really didn't expect to have to use them. She wasn't sure if Ron knew that she was not fully equipped.

But no . . . Ron would be coming for her. She knew that more than her body knew how to breathe. Right now, she wasn't sure that she deserved that kind of devotion and attention and when Ron got her out of here, she wanted to let him know that she was aware of that fact . . . if he would even talk to her. She also guessed . . . that she should at least think about making amends with Felix and Monique and Monique's brother . . . and somehow she knew . . . if nothing else . . . her folks would make sure . . . that she did something for her . . . brothers (although the very thought of it made her stomach churn) to make up for her messing with The Big Night.

And then there was . . . her token lip service to the idea/concept of Ron being her partner rather than a sidekick. With the exception of Grippe, everyone on this mission had treated Ron as even less than a sidekick. She . . . had been at the head of the line in doing so. And while she might have sputtered and grimaced and snorted and been taken aback . . . had she really done anything about it? No . . . she had been magnificent in her 'ringing silence'. But let Descont call her nothing more than a sluttily dressed baby-making machine and her temper and self-righteousness had gone off like an atomic bomb! And afterwards . . . her inadequate insecurity had driven her right to Ron who had reassured her and comforted her and made her feel lov—

Even though they both knew just how mad at her he was. Unlike her, she knew that Ron could set things like that aside if he needed to do so in order to help her. Had she really ever set anything aside for him? Had she changed anything about the way she was handling the whole sitch despite repeated internal promises on her part to do so?

All that shame she had felt, all that guilt, had it changed the way she had done anything?

Her last 'talk' with Ron had turned into an argument because she couldn't take her medicine when he had right up front, tried telling her just why he was mad at her. She couldn't take the criticism from her own boyfriend when he was perfectly in the right to give it . . . in a sitch where she had specifically _asked_ him to do so.

Kim . . . knew she was wrong . . . she . . . just wasn't use to being wrong . . . she didn't like being wrong . . . it . . . she didn't really believe that she was being wrong about certain things . . . she was just . . . being herself . . . but . . . she also wasn't sure that she knew how to change . . . or if there were things that she really didn't want to change despite the problems they caused.

She had always liked herself . . . except when that little voice inside was speaking—

_Ron . . . where are you?_ she mentally complained, trying to change her train of thoughts to something . . . she could deal with better. She of course had no idea how much time had passed and the only way she had to measure it was the increasing pain, some places going into numbness that her body was experiencing.

Kim . . . as bad as it made her feel right now . . . trusted Ron that he was going to be in time . . .

But then again, she had to look at just how badly she had violated his trust . . .

Maybe this was fates payback?


	12. Good Things, Bad Things

Ron came awake with a start—

To find a grim faced Grippe standing in front of him, one hand resting on Ron's leg where he had been shaken awake. In a tone as grim (but with an underlying sense of the ridiculous), Grippe said, "come young Ronald, as my countryman, the indomitable Holmes said through the words of Sir Arthur, 'the game is afoot'!"

Ron blinked bleary eyes, had the immediate thought of _why would a game be a foot?_ but was too sleepy to voice that question. He yawned hugely, eyes closing/head back. When he opened his eyes again—

He blinked in surprise as he came fully awake. He reached out saying—"how—"

Grippe handed the Kimmunicator over. "It just arrived by an express courier. A note from your man Wade said to contact him right away."

Ron hesitated a moment, it felt almost . . . wrong to use a replacement Kimmunicator . . . almost as if it was an acknowledgement that Kim was gone—

But that flashed by in a moment. Ron activated it device and as the screen came to life, "Wade my man—"

The smile on Wade's face told Ron that he got it right. It would have been just wrong to use any of Kim's normal phrases. But the moment lasted just as that, for then Wade's face went to his side screen, "I think I have a hit on DNAmy's lab Ron. Figuring that there had to be extreme electrical use by all of her equipment added to the fact that all that usage would have to be fairly recent, there's a warehouse that's a co-op from an offshoot of HenchCo that looks real good. It also would be within good . . . flying distance for our owlcelots to the center."

Ron nodded at this information even as he looked over towards the dens draped window. He didn't have any idea what time it was or how long he had slept, but there was no light at the corners of the window curtains so he assumed that it was night. He then looked back to Grippe, seeing that the little man was now dressed in casual black; turtleneck, sport coat and pants—looking ready for either a night out . . . or a night slipping through back alleys and windows.

Ron then looked down in front of him—

Spot was sitting up in his box, looking intently at Ron . . . Ron was almost shocked to see just how intent and intelligent that look was. But it was obvious that Spot also knew that it was time—

And maybe he did know, for Rufus was standing right next to him, arms crossed, a ready look in his own eyes. Ron could only assume that somehow Rufus had been able to communicate to Spot—

"Are you ready young Stoppable?" came Grippes voice, the tone a question but the temper behind it saying that it was in fact a statement.

"I am."

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"Ronald," and Ron was surprised by the hesitation in Grippe's voice, "I am afraid that there is something that I have to tell you."

Ron turned his full attention to the little man in the drivers seat. Due to his stature, Grippe was forced to use a very high booster seat to see over the steering wheel, necessitating the need of a full set of handicapped car controls on the wheel in order to enable him to drive. He appeared to be a very safe and confident driver, but it was also apparent that there was something else very much on his mind at the moment.

Ron's insides tightened but he didn't think the worst. Despite his initial distrust and fear of Grippe due to the connection to Ron's arch foe, Ron had since come to accept the man for his extreme competency, knowledge and compassion. As such, Ron knew that Grippe would not have chosen driving through the darkness to tell him that the worst had happened to Kim. He would have done it right up front when Ron had woken up.

But still—"what is it?"

Grippe gave a grudging dip of his head as if acknowledging something that he didn't want to acknowledge; "I did my best to access all my sources while you slept. As such, I was able to learn . . . although I still can not confirm that Getty is involved, that your Kimberly is being held by 'the organization'."

"The Mob," Ron whispered, his face going back to the front, looking out through the windshield at the nighttime city street without seeing it, "their holding her at Amy's?"

Ron heard Getty take a very deep breath, as if Ron's statement was forcing him to drop the other shoe.

"The Organization would most certainly not be holding Kimberly at Hall's location Ronald."

Ron blinked as he tried to put two and two together—

The teen then slowly turned his head toward Grippe, a not-very-pleasant look on his face. "Then we're not going to Amy's. We're going to wherever the organization is holding Kim." Ron said it as a statement rather than a question.

Grippe gave a little shake of his head. "I am sincerely sorry that we are not doing that Ronald. For I was only able to find out that Kimberly was being held, not the location or even the district of the city where she might possibly be. The organization is very good at keeping that kind of information . . . unavailable. As it was . . . " Grippe hesitated and squared his shoulders, "I had to use . . . considerable persuasion on the individual I . . . obtained it from."

Ron had to . . . 'blink' at that . . . but before he could say anything, Grippe continued, "As far as locating the site itself on our own . . . there are literally hundred of such locations about. With that knowledge, I felt that it would be best to continue with our original plan. I am hopeful that we may discover what we need to know either from Hall or from somewhere about inside her facility."

Ron's head again came about to the front, confusion, angry and worry glinting in his eyes. But again before he could say anything—

"I most sincerely apologize Ronald. I should have discussed this with you earlier, I should have allowed you input . . . but I came to realize just now, that I seem to have taken the role of leader and mentor in our little pairing. Indeed, it is a role that I have done often with modest success, but I should not have done it without your express permission."

Ron's eyes continued to burn through the windshield for a minute, before his head and shoulders sagged tiredly. "It's cool Han, as Kim would say, it's no big—I should be use to it by now—"

"Ronald," Ron's head snapped back upright by Grippe's cool, firm tone, "before you allow yourself to wallow in every little bit that you wish to wallow in . . . allow me to make a couple of particulars. You are young, unsure, frightened, foolish in some ways by my experience, but at the same time you are determined, focused in the ability to deal with and get past your fear but . . . you are as I just stated—young; in many ways you are inexperienced, as I suspect Kimberly is when dealing outside of anything the two of you normally deal with."

"What's that suppose to mean," came Ron's instantly hot reply. "Kim can do anything—"

"Ronald," there was a warning tone in Grippes voice as if he had expected the adverse reaction," those who are, or those of us who have made it our life work to deal with . . . you might call them—'ordinary criminals', have a different way and standard of both viewing and dealing with our world. Ronald—Organized Crime does _NOT_ have a 'villains manual' or code of etiquette, other than the ancient traditions and Code Of Honor which is quite different from that of the supervillians that you and Kimberly regularly deal with. As the saying goes, you are in _my_ world now Ronald, and even after thirty years of being in the center of it, I am still learning every day."

Ron was now looking at Grippe, his anger evaporated, every part of him striving to understand.

"Think of yourself as a student Ronald—for you have so much to learn, as you are learning—as you must be learning as a student of Yamanuchi—"

Ron's shock was so total that he actually lurched backwards into the car door—

Grippe gave him a glance with a small sympathetic smile before continuing, "Ronald, I know that you have probably been wondering about all my knowledge and access to 'confidential reports'. I would surmise that you have realized that I am not just a simple 'security expert', not that I intend or have the ability to tell you what I really am at this juncture. But be content that I have access to the highest levels of government and military intelligence sources and with that knowledge—"

"Ronald," and there was actual just the smallest 'hint' of wonder in Grippe's voice, "Yamanuchi school is know in the intelligence world . . . but very, _very_ little is actually 'known' about it or what occurs inside of it—quite an accomplishment I must say in this modern world that we live in. However . . . one of the things that is 'known' (Grippe gave Ron another glance) is that it only accepts . . . 'foreign exchange students' maybe once or twice a century—"

Grippe now turned and actually looked at Ron despite his driving in order to say—

"And the last foreign student to spend any time there just so happens to also be someone known and loved by your Kimberly—"

Ron was beyond shock . . . he could only stare at Grippe even as he managed to understand what was being said.

Grippe was back to watching the road, but his tone was supportive and firm. "I am not going to ask you or attempt to get anything out of you Ronald. But what I would like is for us to work together as well as we might considering the circumstances. I _will not_ be your partner—that is Kimberly's place and privilege. But I _can teach you_ if there is something that you want or need to learn in the hopefully short time we will be together. So if I seem to 'take charge' a bit much . . . please forgive me, I am only trying to help to the best of my ability."

Ron continued to . . . stare at the little man beside him—

But after a long moment . . . understanding came to the blond teen—

"Thank you Han," Ron said, meaning every word of it as he settled himself back into his seat—

"And thanks for trusting me—" the teen added, meaning it even more.

"Think nothing of it lad—"

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_Okay Ron, take your time, be careful and get it right the first time._ The young blond boy then took a deep breath, crossed mental fingers/toes and—

He raised the hairdryer and pulled the trigger—

There was the 'bang' of the charge, the 'whoosh' of the line going out, the 'clang' on the grapple hitting the roof—

It was only then that Ron realized that his eyes were closed—

An eyebrow tweaked-?

There . . . was no sensation as if—

He did not suddenly feel a breeze around his knees—

Dare he look down—?

"Ronald?" he heard Grippe ask.

With his other hand, Ron felt around—

He still had his pants! They hadn't gone flying off with the grapple—

Ron tried not to let his huge sigh show. But he gathered the line up, glanced back at Grippe, giving him a thumbs up even as he started to scale the wall—

Every moment expecting _this_ other shoe to fall—

Along with his pants that is.

They did make it to the roof without any untoward incident. With just a glance and some hand signals, they started to move their way across it. They continued to move until there was a kind of weird noise—

Ron instantly stopped, going down onto his knees. Grippe was there to assist (although he could do so while still on his feet) as Ron carefully shrugged out of the backpack. In the dark, a distant light reflected off of the owlcelots eyes as its head swiveled around through the opening in the back of the pack. It a moment, Grippe had unzipped the compartment, allowing Ron to lift the beast out, setting it on the roof. The owlcelot just stood, gazing up at the two men, head swiveling from one to the other as if waiting for some kind of a sign. A repeat of the strange noise came from its lips . . . the tones sounding strangely like a question. Ron and Grippe exchanged looks in the dark for a single moment before Ron looked down at the minute leopard with an owl's head—

"Go home Spot!"

Ron had been . . . afraid that this simple request would lead to . . . nothing. That he would be subjected to something out of the movies where the 'star' would be forced to ask, explain, coerce, demonstrate, act-out, demand, beg, do whatever to get the little beast to respond—

But Spot just dropped his/her head down and started across the roof. Ron felt an intense wave of relief wash through him in the moment it took for this to register before looking down again, "be careful."

Rufus, who had been waiting patiently next to his foot, gave a jaunty wave before heading out after Spot. Ron stood up, looking after his friend who quickly grew dim and disappeared into the darkness. Ron blew out a breath, then pulled the Kimmunicator.

"It will be okay Ronald," Grippe said quietly from next to him.

"We can hope," Ron agreed as he activated the unit in his hands. "As long as they're using standard HenchCo sensors, Rufus can handle them. Hopefully he'll find someplace quickly where he can attach Wade's hacking patch in so we have a better idea as to what we're up against." At that moment, the boy genius face came up on the small screen in Ron's hand. "Are you in the area of the building Ron?"

Ron affected a jaunty look and answered, "actually, we're already on the roof with our advanced scouts deployed."

A shocked look came over Wade's face. "Ron! I said that this building was a co-op. There had to be sensors all around the entire structure—"

The jaunty look vanished from Ron's face instantly with a trembling, "that . . . is a bad thing isn't it."

"Ronald," said Grippes quiet voice from right next to him," my excellent sense of smell just detected the scent of—"

The cringe that Ron had dropped into increased as his head snapped around—

"Very Large Gorillas—" he had time to whimper.

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In the stillness of the little black room, the roar of Kim's stomach was deafening. At the same time, her mouth and throat was parched. But . . . like it or not . . . her other major problem had been taken care of for her—

Kim . . . had not been . . . well—

She wasn't quite sure . . . just how she felt—

Her guards, men of only slightly less stature than Getty had brought in a portable camping toilet for her to use; indicating in poor English that the action was for their benefit, not hers, as they had not wanted to be subjected to the smell and cleanup if Kim had had an accident.

Even now . . . as she remembered it—

The whole incident had left Kim humiliated, embarrassed . . . angry beyond measure . . . for they didn't untie her wrists, just lifted her off of the hook. Then, several women of a like type came in—

One of them shoved a gun literally into Kim's mouth—

Kim got the message. Two of the remaining women held her arms behind her back with painful, twisting grips. The last manhandled her clothing and body before and after in order to accomplish the act . . . and they had actually _stood_ there during. If the need hadn't been so desperate where her body had actually let go on its own accord—

A part of Kim's mind, her analytical, deductive part had . . . after much consideration, come up with a possible explanation as to why—

Kim knew that if the men had tried to do the same thing to her, she would have been dead before they had gotten that far—and for some reason they didn't want her dead yet—

The women had been older . . . seeming disinclined with actually . . . molesting her for the actions of their hands had been straightforward to get the job done . . . BUT IT HAD STILL BEEN—

It had taken a considerable amount of time for Kim's head to clear afterwards. But she felt—

The analytical part of Kim's mind hoped she never saw those women again—she didn't want to have their murder on her conscience—

The actual relief might have been a blessing, for the pressure had been reaching the point of unbearable, and a curse, for her concentration on the unbearable pressure had relieved Kim's mind from thinking about other things that she would rather not think about. But it was an incident and a memory that she hoped she could forget as quickly and as completely as she possibly could.

It the time since, her mind had found welcome diversion in the attempt to shunt aside the complete pain driven numbness in her upper body, shoulders and neck from the strain of her hanging by her tied wrists. Added to the fact that she had to keep her head turned somewhat to one side or the other because of the knot of her ponytail only increased her discomfort from the top of her ribs up.

Her stomach spoke again . . .

_Great, _was her thought, _I'm hanging here like a piece of meat waiting to be tenderized and my stomach is demanding something that I might be turned into shortly. You would think that—_ Kim's brain suddenly jerked to a halt, her head involuntarily looking up into the darkness above her, _wait a sec, I am literally hanging on a hook here. I was able to see it when they . . . hung me back up here after using the toilet. A straight, regular open hook._

Kim's mind attacked the problem, desperate and thankful for the diversion from brooding over her trauma and the self-made problems with Ron. _My hands/wrists are tied with cord . . . not that I can feel my hands or forearms anymore . . . but the cord is just hooked over the hook. If I could get some kind of purchase on something . . . I could lift my hands right off. But there's nothing around to stand on, they saw to that, and the wall behind me is completely smooth so there's no traction there. I could do a pull-up, bring the back of my head up against the hook, but even I'm not fast enough to snap the cords out of the hook before my weight pulls me down again._

Kim leaned the back of her head against the wall, grimacing as the bulk of her ponytail again got into the way. She knew that there was a reason why she didn't normally wear ponytails on missions and this was most defiantly one of them. In fact—

Kim's eyes then went very, very wide in the darkness—

It took only a moment to set herself—

And she had to actually bite her lower lip against the agony in her arms/shoulders/joints as she started to slowly pull herself up, her back scraping the wall, the injuries there and on her neck howling their own protests, the friction of her body against the wall hindering her movement up.

The pressure in her shoulder joints caused her arms to start to shake and spasm but she concentrated on her goal, putting every bit of herself into it, feeling her teeth draw blood from her lip as she cranked her head down and forward—

She reached the hook, she could feel it at the back of her head through the burning of her entire back/neck—

Kim fought down a scream as she suddenly snapped her head around, trying to—

And she almost bit her tongue when her arms gave way and she fell ALL the way back down, almost jerking her wrists/elbows/shoulders right out of their sockets—

And as hard as she might have tried to prevent it, a cry of agony escaped her lips.

She froze, fighting the agony/shock that washed over her, desperately opening her senses to see if she had been heard. She had been told that the room had been soundproofed so no one could hear her call for help . . . but that didn't mean that the bad guys might not have microphones listening in just in case she tried something as she was trying now.

Kim waited in the cold dark, her whole body shaking now from the shock/pain/adrenalin that was flowing through her, sweat running down her face and soaking into her mission shirt below her shoulders and sternum despite the coolness of the room. But all of this she ignored, her hearing straining for any sign—

After an innumerable amount of time, Kim started again . . . with the agony/shaking double of what had been in the first attempt. She knew that she had to do it this time because she probably didn't have it in her for a third try.

With her mouth open in a silent scream, she pulled up, cocked her head forward, felt the hook at the back of her head—

Felt herself start to slip, start to fall again—

Kim snapped/whipped her head around even as she did fall—

The blow as her head snapped forward/down, her chin slamming into her chest, jarring her teeth in their sockets as her whole spine jerked—

Even as the pain/shock/impact of what she had just done to her upper body caused things to dim behind her eyes even in the darkness—

For Kim was now hanging from her ponytail, where it was knotted up in her scrunchy—

Which was already beginning to pull and tear due to her weight.

As carefully as she could, knowing that rushing would be her downfall and doom, Kim fighting hands/wrists/arms/elbows/shoulders that were threatening to lock up from such abuse, slowly started to work her tied wrists out of the hook, hindered by the fact that she couldn't _feel_ them but focusing on her own deep awareness of her body which told her where they were regardless. Part of the problem was that the cords were now _under_ her trapped hair and pulling too hard would tear/rip the scrunchy—

Kim's entire head was on fire as her very roots took the abuse of her weight, each little motion or jerk causing a wave of agony to rip though her scalp. She knew that she only had moments yet she _had_ to take her time—

Her hands/wrists pulled free! Kim instantly brought her nerveless hands back down, trying to get just the tips of her fingers—anything—into the tiny gap between the front of the hook and the back of her head in order to take some of the weight off of her scalp. But her unfeeling fingers didn't want to work right and she tried to force then to lock on the hook even as she tried to once again lift herself, tortured limbs and joints trying to take up the load—

Those nerveless fingers lost their grip. She fell—

It was if something thought her head was a bottle cap and tried to rip it off by smacking it on the edge of a table, the jerk nearly drove her into unconsciousness—

But she hit the floor, for only a small part of her hair having been caught in the hook when she dropped, some of the roots being ripped out, the others parting in mid-strand. Kim wanted to wail and cry in pain, she wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and will the agony away but she couldn't wait. Once again forcing herself, she rallied, using the sensation of the cold floor to pull herself back from the brink of the darkness behind her eyes. At the same time, she worked to find her center, her focus in order to push all the pain in her to the side—

Kim rolled up an Indian-sitting position, dropping her hands into her lap in an attempt to start trying to get some circulation in them. Even as she did this, she was scrunching around on her butt, moving to get out from being directly in front of the door so she wasn't totally blinded/exposed if it suddenly opened.

When she felt her back touch the wall alongside of the door, she allowed herself a moment to pant and try to get her breath.

_Well, there went the easy part_ she thought.

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_Well, _Ron said to himself in a calm, considerate tone, _at least DNAmy's lairs are always clean, well lit and with some really nice touches on the tablecloths._ Ron, who was being held in some kind of 'rack' on the wall, with his limbs stretched out like a starfishes, was actually finding some kind of comfort in the fact that Amy had returned to this style after that dirty, dreary castle she had been using when trying to woo Monkey Fist. Ron wondered what had happened with that as Amy had obviously turned herself back into a regular human.

_Maybe she had some trouble with the gorilla form_ he mused. _Maybe it was too strong and she did some damage to some of her Cuddle Buddy collection._ It wasn't an idle thought, for Amy at the moment was across the room with one of the plush toys in her lap (Ron did have the whisper of a thought that the smoking oriental model who had worn that one on The Runway was a lot better memory than what he was seeing now), with _all_ of the others stacked on the table next to her.

"So Ronald," said a quiet voice from next to him, "if your normal operating procedure is that if one of you is captured, the other joins them as so to escape as a team, what happens when the both of you are being held captive at mutually unsupportable locations?"

Ron didn't look at Grippe, who was being held in an identical (well, it was smaller) rack to Ron's right. He just replied in a low voice, "that's not exactly true Han, Rufus is out there, and he's actually gotten Kim and I out of more traps than we ever did together."

The little Englishman considered this a moment before, "so I assume that it will be in our best interest to allow Ms. Hall to continue to be distracted by her ill-gotten gains."

Ron only nodded. Amy had of course greeted them when her two giant gorillas, the same ones he thought (and smelled) from that thing with Monkey Fist, brought him and Grippe into the lair. Other than apologizing for any bumps and bruises that they might have received and offering them cookies, she had pretty much ignored them, spending the time (except for making a phone call) playing with the Buddies. If she could continue to be distracted by her (_what did Han call them? Sick gotten gains or something_), Ron knew that Rufus wouldn't have a problem.

Just then, there was a crash that resounded through the lair. Amy jerked up out of her chair looking off to Ron and Grippe's right—

A plainly angry Spa Getty stalked in through what had to be the front door to the co-op bay, the door slamming back into the adjacent wall in the process. Ron heard a hiss through the teeth of the small man beside him, but felt a certain sense of satisfaction within himself for his total opinion of Getty was that he had been just too much of a jerk not to be one of the bad guys.

Which felt good, considering the fear that had just gripped Ron's stomach and the sweat that had broken out on his brow at the mere thought of a really angry Getty—

Really angry! In fact Ron thought that the huge man was going to run right over Amy who slowly realized just what she was facing. She started to back up, clutching the plush doll to her bosom just before a weird scream left her lips.

The whole room shook as the two giant gorillas suddenly dropped down from somewhere above—

Getty stopped himself, looking at the two hulking figures that were much bigger than even his incredible size, the rage plain on his face but he visibly got it under control before he turned back to Amy. He had, as he had been entering, been shouting at the top of his voice in Italian with accompanying wild gestures, but now as he said something to Amy, he only used small, abrupt movements of his hands/arms. Amy's voice shrieked back at him, clearly too distraught and angry for Ron and Grippe to understand her over the distance.

The two captives watched this exchange go back and forth for several moments—

Then Getty turned and stalked out just as abruptly as he had entered. Amy, wildly crying suddenly gathered an entire armful of the Cuddle Buddies off of the table before running sobbing out of a portal and had to lead to the back . . . leaving the two captives looking on with wonder on their faces.

"Ahhhhh, Han," asked Ron, with more than a little tremor in his voice, "do you have any idea if what we just saw was a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Well," Had started in a slow reply as if he was still analyzing what had occurred, "considering what Getty was yelling in Italian when he came in, I am most definitely not sure of what the outcome of that little exchange was." Grippe then sighed heavily, "of course, we do now possess the knowledge that Getty was indeed involved in the plot—"

"Okay, okay," Ron repeated nervously, "and again, is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Ronald," Grippe was now sounding very 'careful', "we've seen Getty. Now he may not have been expecting us to be out here in plain sight when he came in so he has had to just realize that we just saw him . . . and that his secret is out—"

"So that's a good thing—"

"Which of course means that in order to keep that secret _secret_, he now has to kill us—"

"That's a bad thing!"

"And considering that what he was yelling in Italian when he came in, before I think he realized we were here I might add, was that if Hall had captured us, that we should have been immediately killed in order to keep the conspiracy safe—"

"That's also a bad thing!"

"He also said something about him having your Kimberly and that she will be dead before tomorrow morning—"

"That is oh SO a BAD Thing!"

"And before he was interrupted by our large friends coming down from upon high, Getty, vowed that he was going to take us out right here where we hung—"

"ANOTHER BAD THING! TOO MANY BAD THINGS! NEED GOOD THINGS!"

'Calmly Ronald, calmly—" Grippe admonished, "if I understand what I think we just saw, Hall refused to cooperate with Getty. I don't think that she . . . had given any thought to what to do with us, which is why she called Getty . . . and she was totally unprepared for what Getty had to say and using our oversized co-hosts, she got Getty to leave—"

"Oh, that's just gotta be a good thing!"

"The problem is," Grippe continued carefully, "is that with the shock of it all, Hall took what comfort she could with her stolen toys and retreated to her inner sanctum. She is probably now incapable of any other action or thought."

"Okay, we're back to square one, is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"That . . . depends," Grippe continued, just as carefully. "If we can take advantage of the situation before Hall comes to grip with what has happened—"

"That's would be a good thing—"

"But we must do it before Getty returns, which he will, and when he does, he will do so with whatever manpower and firepower that he deems necessary to taking our large simian guardians down—"

"That would be a bad thing—"

Grippe stopped for a moment, closing his eyes tiredly as if afraid to say another word.

Before Grippe could start again, Ron looked up and said in a hopeful voice, "we need a good thing . . . come on Rufus, where are you boy?"

There was enough certainty in the teens voice that it actually caused Grippe to look up as well, thinking _yes, that would most definitely be a good thing—_

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One could say that Rufus The Naked Mole Rat was one of the most unique little critters in the world. No one has been able to explain the nature of his intelligence, self-awareness and ability to both communicate with those who knew him and understand complex concepts given to him, concepts he was often able to translate into actual physical actions and activities.

He was unique in his ability to interact with both humans and human built machines and devices, having gained a broad range of knowledge over the years that has allowed him to do everything from picking electronic gate locks to fixing balking computer printers to assisting in rewiring donut making machines to be used as a weapon against an inter-dimensional dinosaur—

He was unique in the fact that he was a highly regarded member of a team with a proven record of accomplishments against the most horrible odds and situations, the successful outcomes of which on several occasions, could be directly traced to his personal actions/interventions. He was known to have a cool head in action and had been the recipient of several awards and citations.

There are many other factors that made Rufus unique—

But occasionally a situation was encountered where Rufus was not . . . unique . . . a situation like now . . . as he lay shivering with huge fearful eyes—

It seemed that in the haste of attempting to organize this particular rescue, it was forgotten that Rufus . . . stripped of all his superlative abilities . . . was still . . . on the most basic of levels . . . a small ground-scurrying rodent—

Which of course made him a prime food source of both arboreal felines and night flying predators . . . of which he now found himself face-to-face with an entire nest full of both of these . . . melded into one—

This was most definitely . . . a bad thing!


	13. Polizia Talks, Kim Acts, Ron Listens

A/N-this chapter only, _italics_ for Italian.

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The wide, polished wood doors of the boardroom swung open abruptly and a group of men, middle aged or older, all with the distinguished looks of power and authority, came out in mass. The features of their faces were all grim, many angry—

The man in the lead might have been labeled the angriest of them all, but under the surface appearance, Hevia Descont was at least a satisfied man as well. The majority of his anger still reflected the ridiculously thoughts and demands of those imbeciles who put forward that the honor of the center and all it stood for was equal to the risking the life of a . . . a . . . worthless . . .

Desconts teeth started to grind again at just the thought. So what if the Americans protested and threatened, what had they done for Italia since throwing the Nazi occupiers out. Did they help against the long battle with the Communists? Were they helping against the scourge of immigrants driven into Italia by their misbegotten 'foreign policy' in the east and mid-east? No! He had no time or patience for any upstart American who thought they were something special . . . especially a skinny wrath of a girl who did not know her place.

This frightening close decision of the board was a sorely needed victory for him. Those prostituting themselves on the alters of 'progress' and 'globalization' and 'the European Community' needed to be controlled, reigned in, lest all the old ways were lost. It had been a battle that he had been fighting and losing for years. Perhaps now, the tide could start to be reversed and—

Descont suddenly came up short, those around him stopping as he did, for his eyes were now on a trench coated figure that had stepped into their path from a side hall. Descont's eyes narrowed as he saw that Inspector Polizia was going to just stand there and wait . . . wait for him.

Descont looked to those around him, giving them a slow nod of his head, telling them to proceed. And so his group moved off, even as Polizia slowly walked toward Descont. However, none of those now passing Polizia gave any thought to a nasty look or perhaps an awkward shoulder bumping . . . such a disrespectful act would most definitely be remembered at a later date with an appropriate action to avenge it.

In a moment, the two men were alone in the hall, facing each other squarely, two meters, and a lifetime of events and experiences separating them.

"_Such a meeting of the full board, with no notification or publication is indeed unusual, is it not Signor?" _Polizia asked in an amiable tone.

"_The business of the board is just that,"_ Descont replied, _"It neither concerns you nor do you need to be concerned with it."_

"_That is untrue Signor," _Polizia countered with a quiet tone. _"I have many concerns at the moment, as do you if you would only see."_

"_My concerns are not yo—"_ Descont started. But Polizia interrupted him with a soft tone underlined with steel.

"_Another untruth Signor. And I do not like having untruths spoken to me. Do you not think that I would not be here before you if I did not have a glimpse of what is occurring? Not only are you endangering the Center Signor, but you start to place yourself into risk as well."_

Descont gave the police inspector a furious look. _"If such is the case, then it is my actions and my responsibility. THAT should at least be something that you can understand!"_

Polizia slowly shook his head. _"Sadly Signor, I understand all too well. And just because you accept the responsibility for what may or may not occur does not mean that they are the correct or true actions."_

"_They are true to me and my way," _Descont snapped angrily.

Polizia gave him a questioning look. _"With so much a stake?"_

Descont gave a derisive snort. _"I care not for what is at stake!"_

Polizia's look turned hard. _"A young girls life means nothing to you?"_

Descont's look now turned just as hard. _"You do know much. If that is the case Inspector, why haven't you moved to correct the problem? Why are you not doing your duty as you see fit?"_

Now Polizia snorted. _"Because Old Man, I really am attempting to do you a favor here. I am attempting to get you to see reason, come forward and cooperate fully with my office, save the life of a girl who has done nothing but good for this world, save yourself from the spectacle of having to admit that the man you named at the new head of your security is in fact deeply involved in this insidious plot that has already done this center, its members and you, such harm!"_

Descont's face had gone even harder as Polizia spoke. When the Inspector finished, he stood there still . . . until. _"You know nothing Inspector. We would not be having this talk if you really 'knew'. You would already be taking action because yours is the 'new' way, were everything is handled through official channels and reports and 'appropriate actions'. Mine as you know is not that way. We deal with honor, family, clan, the organization, binds and ties that have existed and supported this country for centuries. There is the good; promises, agreements, treaties! There is also the bad; treason, betrayal, ambition. Somehow we . . . Italia . . . have survived and flourished . . . until of late . . . when the 'new ways' began to truly take hold."_

Descont started to walk around Polizia, saying as he went, _"an agreement has been made on both sides. If it turns out that ambition is indeed followed by betrayal, such is the way. It will be dealt with as it has though the years. I will not yield to pressure from ways I do not believe in._"

"_And so you walk into this trap of your own making opened eyed,"_ Polizia growled at him as he passed with such a damning tone that Descont was brought to a stop by the words, _"__because you are too stubborn to see that you and those who side with you are the last of your kind and that Getty and his people will replace you and you will be gone forever and your way will have died its final death!_

Descont didn't even look at him. He just gave the Inspector another contemptuous snort before saying, _"as you said without saying, my way is dieing anyway. I might as well allow it to go to its grave in a way of my own making. At least it will then be a fitting death . . . an honorable death."_

"_And what of Kim Possible?"_ Polizia snarled. _"Will hers be an 'honorable death'? What of her fate when all she tries to do is good?"_

Another snort, but this one was one of amusement. _"She was told to run back to her women and learn the proper ways of them. Whatever happens to her is now appropriate for her considering. I care not beyond that."_

With that, Descont continued on his way without looking back. After a moment, Polizia sighed and turned away, reaching into his trenchcoat for his cellphone as he did so, hoping that his office might have received some kind of information from his circle of informants—

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The room was medium sized with plain gray concrete block walls. There was some desks, filing cabinets, large couches strewn haphazardly around. There was three men sprawled around the room, all large, bored and grumpy—

Then the phone on one of the desks rang—

The one sitting at the desk, middle aged, wearing dirty coveralls snatched it up to his ear with a grunt. He didn't even identify himself or give a greeting for only one person would be calling that number. Coveralls listened for a moment—

"_We'll have to keep the body here until the time is right to dump it."_ Coveralls listened a moment more then without another word, hung up the phone. He then looked to his companions. _"Authorization from the Central Counsel has finally come through."_

The second man was a bit beyond middle age, thickset, balding, wearing an open-collared shirt with tie loosened halfway down his chest. _"It took them long enough. One might think that they were concerned about foreign repercussions."_

Coveralls nodded absently to this statement even as he continued to look at the phone on the desk without seeing it. Despite the assurance of his local superior, such an act as they were about to commit was one with probably international reactions and ramifications, requiring at least the acknowledgement of the highest levels of their organization. It was for that reason that the girl locked in the room behind him was still alive, relatively unharmed and handled with due caution in order to avoid . . . a prematurely unfortunate incident. That had been the reason why one of the earlier shifts had 'allowed' the girl to relieve herself assisted by women—if what was said about the wisp of a girl was even partly true, if his men had attempted that same act . . . an accident may have occurred with permanent damage—

And if the Counsel _hadn't_ given approval—they would have some trouble—

But now—

The third one, younger, barely out of his teens, flaunting himself in ultra tight muscle tee and jeans had been looking expectantly from one of the couches, _"about time. I'm tired of waiting. I have been looking forward using this American slut to the fullest."_ He rose up off of the couch, adjusting his clothing as he did so.

"_Then you are an idiot,"_ Loose Tie said with dripping scorn, _"leaving any of yourself behind in or on the girl is foolish. The American authorities will demand DNA samples. Yours may not be in the records at this time but some day they will be . . . and the Americans never forget about things like this."_

Muscle shirt cursed and spat on the floor, _"you old men worry like old women. I could care less that they might come for me years from now! The time to live is now, and to be able to violate such a girl like this is the way reputations are made!"_

"_Reputation as what?"_ Coveralls snapped back. _"A reputation as a man of thought and control and the vision of tomorrow . . . a man who will go far in the organization . . . or the reputation of a rutting pig that will never get beyond the sewer?"_

Anger flashed throughout Muscle Shirt. But he could do nothing. These men where higher than he in the organization . . . he was still a _bambino_ next to them . . . and his future in the organization, as little as he liked it, required him staying in their favor. He clenched his fists. So be it. He might not be able to take the American slut in the way he had been daydreaming about, but he would use his anger at being denied to beat her into an unrecognizable pile of bloody skin and broken bones.

"_Let's get this over with then,"_ he sneered, allowing his contempt to show but acknowledging their authority.

Loose Tie snorted, _"indeed, let us get it done."_

With that, Coveralls rose from the desk, hand already fishing in a pocket for the keys to the closet behind him. There were two locks taking two keys with which he had to fumble for through the rest of the ring. As Muscle Shirt waited impatiently, Coveralls finally got the door open, stepping in and turning on the light inside—

The girl was as they had left her when they had looked in on her at the start of their shift, hanging from the hook directly in front of the door. Her head jerked sideways in sudden reaction, eyes crushed closed as the light beat in on her after all her hours in total darkness. With a low chuckle at her discomfort, Coveralls stepped into the closet, taking the time to get the keys put away, pulling some work gloves out of a pocket and putting them on before reached up, roughly grabbing the girl by her face, twisting that face back to him even as on the heels of his chuckle he said, _"do not worry, the light will not be bothering you much longer."_

The girl was able to get her eyes open a little, blinking hard against the light. Coveralls snorted. Despite it all, he thought that he could actually see just the littlest hint of defiance in those . . . incredibly green eyes. Coveralls grunted again and said back over his shoulder, _"this one does have spirit. I wonder if all the stories and press is really true?"_

"_Enough!"_ Loose Tie snapped in response. _"Don't let yourself be fooled. For a girl/child her reputation is formidable. Don't be lulled!"_

"_I will break her in two,"_ Muscle Shirt vowed, shaking his head in disbelief that such a skinny little girl could be a danger.

"_I just believe you might,"_ Coveralls responded as he started to lean up and in on the girl, reaching up to grab her upraised armpits in order to lift her tied hands off of the hook, _"I like my women with meat on them. This one—"_

That was as far as he got. The moment his hands touched her, his eyes, which were on her hands in order to guide them off of the hook, saw her hands suddenly shift and he realized that she was hanging from the hook by just her hands, the cords that were suppose to be binding her wrists a sham—

In startled reaction he drew back . . . which caused a sudden gap to open between he and her—

Kim snapped one knee up just as hard as she could, catching Coveralls right square in the underside of his jaw, snapping the jaw closed, snapping his whole head back just as violently from the force of her blow, that same force snapping his shoulders/upper torso back just as hard, his body following out through the closet door into the room—

Loose Tie and Muscle Shirt had been standing to either side of the closet door, waiting for Coveralls to drag the girl out. When it was Coverall's body that suddenly was catapulted out of the door, falling flat onto his back, blood erupting from the lower part of his face, their surprise and startlement was complete!

Which allowed Kim as she dropped from where she had been hanging (a position she had assumed as soon as she heard the keys in the door having spent a considerable amount of her recent captivity practicing jumping/finding the hook in the dark in order to be ready when the time came . . . practice put to the test earlier when they had 'looked in' on her at the change of their watch), to get her feet in position against the wall of the closet and launch herself out of the door, past the two startled goons, over the body of the man she had just knocked unconscious. Her ploy had worked; her 'still bound and hung from the hook' ploy had bought her the time for her eyes to adjust enough to where she wouldn't be fighting completely blinded by the intrusion of light into her black cell. Her vision wasn't one hundred percent yet, but it was enough for her to see her initial target, her escape vector and now her landing zone as she hit the floor and rolled, coming back up on her feet!

Kim immediately spun about into a defensive stance even as her still burning eyes snapped about, getting the layout of her battlefield, searching for an escape route or other threats. She really didn't want to fight, she was too sore and stiff to be totally in her best form, and she was worried about being overwhelmed if substantial reinforcements arrived quickly.

But the young man in the Muscle Shirt was charging her, rage creasing his features. Those features turned to surprise as Kim leapt straight up and spun about into a reverse spin kick that caught Muscle Shirt in the side of his face, his momentum bouncing him past Kim even as he headed down to the floor. Kim sidestepped multiple times, placing the desk between her and the guy with the Loose Tie while at the same time opening the distance between her and Muscle Shirt.

Loose Tie was in a partial crouch, eyes wide with fear, sweating profusely. He had the look of a man who knew that he was outclassed but was afraid of other consequences if he didn't step in. Loose Tie forced himself to move, keeping his back against the wall even as he slid along that wall as he tried to circle Kim, attempting to get her between him and Muscle Shirt who was now slowly dragging himself to his feet.

Kim's only options would be to retreat into the same corner toward which Loose Tie was heading in order to keep from having one of them behind her back or attack her way past Muscle Shirt toward the only other door she saw. Muscle Shirt solved the problem for her by coming around and at her before he was completely on his feet. Blood was streaming from his nose but his eyes were no longer wild. His experience in street fighting was obvious and he was no longer taking Kim for granted.

Not knowing if the bad guys already had help on the way, Kim had no choice. She feinted toward Loose Tie (who actually cringed back against the wall) by charging the desk that was between the two of them. Up on top of the desk she jumped—immediately snapping into a back flip with which she rebounded off of the ceiling, twisting around as she did so, coming down on top of Muscle Shirt—

He had seen her coming despite his brain blasted into incomprehension by her unbelievable speed and reaction time, her gravity defying ability to ricochet . . . all he had time for was a double forearm block—

But he was a street fighter with no formal training. Kim scissored her legs, changing from the one she had intended to strike with to the other, throwing his block off center, her outstretched leg coming in over the top of the block to smash down past it, her heel going right down into his chest. Her entire body followed down on top of him even as he went down under her, her legs collapsing like shock absorbers, taking in her momentum. Kim then rolled forward and off of Muscle Shirt in order to keep from getting tangled up with him. She came out of the roll with her sights set on the door—

Which opened before her to reveal nothing but big burly bodies—

Kim immediately altered course. There was a window to her left. Curtains were pulled tightly over it and she had no idea what lay beyond it. It could be a brick wall, it could be a thirty-story fall, it could be onto a set of railroad tracks with a train passing by or a pit full of hungry alligators—

But it was all she had. She crossed her forearms in front of her face to guard against the glass that was most certainly about to cut her—

"RON—I L—" was all she got out before she hit the window at full speed—

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"What is it Ronald?"

Ron's head jerked upright at Grippe's soft question. The sudden movement didn't help the pain/stiffness in all of the joints and other body parts that were being strained by gravity against his restraints, but physical pain was the least of his worries right now.

"Wh—what makes you think that anything is the matter?" he replied, intentionally keeping his voice light—

Which of course made Ron sound like he had been caught looking in the window of the girls bathroom—

Ron only heard Grippe's sigh . . . which was followed by silence once more.

However—

"Sir . . . . . . how . . . do you deal with someone who's . . . really strong willed without . . . "

Ron heard Grippe sigh again . . . but this one sounded . . . understanding. "that can be a real challenge can it not. You don't wish to make them angry . . . for strong-willed people tend to anger when their will is flaunted."

"Not kidding," Ron agreed under his breath.

"I'm afraid Ronald," Grippe continued after a moment, "that in my experience, it boils down to whither or not the person in question . . . respects you."

Ron's head dropped . . . for he was pretty absolutely sure what the answer to that question was.

"I see," Grippe said quietly when Ron didn't respond any further. It was as if he had figured it out for himself. "I'm afraid," Grippe went on, "that it would be best for you to at least figuratively, take the bull by the horns young Ronald."

Startled, Ron looked over next to him and saw that Grippe's eyes were on him most intently. "But you said that I shouldn't try to make them angry?"

"That is why Ronald," and Grippe's tone was a firm as his eyes, "that you must deal with it in a way that will not make Kimberly angry or otherwise cause her stress."

Ron was shocked that Grippe had actually named Kim. He didn't think that—

"Oh tut!" Grippe muttered with an angry shake of his head. "We are adults here Ronald! Who else would we be having this conversation about as, point one; who else in your inner circle have I met other than Rufus and point two; I have not been by any means blind to the dynamics between the two of you over the last several days. I've had my share of go-arounds believe me. I know stress between partners when I see it."

That descriptive word seemed to slap Ron harder that the prior revelation. "P—partners . . . you don't really think that we've—Kim and I—do you really think we've been acting like partners! If you only knew how we even got into this mess of a mission—"

"Partners Ronald," and the 'quiet' in Grippe's voice grabbed Ron harder that a shout into his face ever would. "Kimberly may lead and you may follow, but in the moments when you were both . . . how does she put it—in the game—in those moments when you had forgotten whatever the problems the two of you might have with each other, your teamwork of the mind, your partnership of thought was . . . I believe the teen vernacular is . . . spankin . . . to view. Polizia told me how you figured out the three-dimensional model created by your man Wade which first illuminated Spot and the owlcelots. The fact that the two of you found me and the assistant in the hidden room, your suggestion followed by Kimberly's well-ordered logic that led us to an injured Spot . . . the fact remains Ronald that despite any friction which you both displayed, the two of you operated better than a well-oiled machine. YOUR problem Ronald is that there are times that you wish to assert yourself and _can't_ . . . because perhaps Kimberly sadly does not actively respond to you as the partner you are."

"Why—?" was all Ron could make himself say.

Grippe's shrug really wasn't one due to his outstretched arms but it got the point across. "That would be difficult for me to speculate on considering how little I actually know the two of you." Ron's head started to slump down again—

"Be that as it may however," Grippe continued in a thoughtful tone, "I certainly have known my own share of strong-willed ladies, both young and old. If I may venture a guess—"

Ron's head came back up, his eyes asking the question for him.

"I may assume that Kimberly . . . loves you . . . and everything that might entail in regards to someone with her kind of fire and passion. Maybe she even has feelings for you that are so strong that she has a hard time expressing them to you, be that verbally or physically. And if my understanding from the . . . confidential reports that I have reviewed regarding the two of you . . . you have been companions for almost all of your formative years.

Ron was . . . trying not to gawk at Grippe . . . and failing miserably—

"And therein may lie the problem Ronald. Strong-willed/action oriented people, especially young ladies like Kimberly . . . have an . . . inherent insecurity inside of them which . . . while it is totally hidden from the world, may often drive them to do things that might be . . . which might seem to be totally out of character for them or perhaps incomprehensible to the rest of us. Which might be the case here . . . I can not say for I do not know enough. But I can say—"

Grippe's look and tone took on that of a prophet expressing the ultimate truth—with Ron hanging on every word of it.

"You can not expect to succeed by confronting her head on or demanding your due or withholding yourself until she comes to see your viewpoint. If the fact is that she doesn't respect you . . . those techniques will only exacerbate the situation. Nor can you 'earn' her respect—"

Ron blinked—shocked—"but how then—"

Grippe's eyes stopped him, then the older man went on. "Understand that she should not know that you are 'trying' . . . trying to earn something that she should already have inside herself in regards to you. If she does realize that that _is_ what is happening, it will cause her to painfully search herself because she will realize that she lacks what you are trying to accomplish . . . and that might result in an unintentionally violent reaction. Are there things . . . other than your missions . . . where the two of you work closely together?"

Ron thought . . . and felt more gloom and doom come into his soul. His first impulse had been things he and Kim had done in school . . . only to realize that he had always slacked off on the things like science and other school projects and papers, always allowing Kim to do them, completely unaided by him in any way—

Then Ron thought of the Finals they had just finished . . . and how Kim had tutored him so hard—

Even as he had been trying so hard to pass them because she deserved him doing just that—

They had been working together—

Grippe saw the light 'light' in Ron's eyes and he gave a nod of encouragement. "Kimberly is a born leader Ronald. If you try to 'tell her', 'make her', 'force her' to do anything, she will resist . . . very possibly without even realizing it. But if you allow her to 'lead', while at the same time being there, right along side pulling the same load as she, if you 'suggest', 'offer', 'theorize', 'wonder' . . . she will respond. It may well be that under those circumstances that you will even be able to offer a differing or opposing opinion or idea and that the two of you may be able to give it a legitimate argument."

Ron gave it a moment's thought . . . shaking his head a little, "I don't know Han, Kim does listen to me at times but she's the one who's usually right about things. She has that instinct that I don't."

That brought forth what could only be described as a 'disbelieving' snort from Grippe. "Kimberly can not be 'perfect' Ronald," was Grippes reply in an equally amused/annoyed tone. "I myself have noted several . . . less than perfect qualities about her in the short time of our acquaintance."

Ron bristled. "That's not a nice thing to say Sir. Kim has been under a . . . a lot of stress—"

Grippe raised one eyebrow. "And you haven't young Ronald? And you rise to her defense so quickly? Does she always do the same for you?"

Ron felt his entire head turn beet red when he realized that Grippe had led him right into a trap that he didn't want to think about.

But Grippe also didn't dwell on it. "My point is Ronald that Kimberly . . . and you of course but you are not the subject of this discussion as we have already somewhat explored it with you . . . is also still young and learning the adult world. She is of course very mature as she would not be doing what she does if she was not. But again, my experience with the likes of her, is that while they are most mature in accomplishing their job—her mission as it were—an area/realm/world where that instinct you spoke of carries her forward with firmness and dispatch, it is her . . . personal side . . . that side under which that insecurity _I_ spoke of earlier resides that causes problems which persons of her ilk often attempt to hide or ignore."

Grippe now gave Ron what could only be described as a 'piercing' look. "Persons like Kimberly often find themselves cut off from others. They may be able to complain, vent, 'gripe' about grievances they have . . . but they are just as often unable to express or confide when they _really_ need to confess or are unsure of something. They could very well be alone even among those they call friends. The fact that you and Kimberly were so close while she was growing into what she is now has a tremendous advantage for her . . . and an equally tremendous responsibility for you."

Ron felt the weight of the words on his shoulders. But he didn't flinch. Grippe seeing this, gave the teen an affirming nod.

"Deal with Kimberly as the leader she is but remember that there are things in which the two of you are equal as well as those where _you_ excel. Don't demand . . . but encourage. Don't force . . . but have patience and be willing to work through with her. She may have to find her own way . . . but in time she will. Be firm and unafraid when needed and do not take a negative reaction on her part to heart. Suggest things which she can consider which would benefit her, you, the both of you and follow through with them."

Grippe's look then became . . . Ron could only describe it as 'very serious and _very_ firm. "Most importantly Ronald . . . although the very concept of it is exactly in the opposite of all I just said . . . it is equally important that you . . . . . . know yourself . . . respect yourself and your views and opinions . . . and do not _ever_ be afraid to take a stand . . . regardless of what the consequences may seem at the time whenever Kimberly is most horribly _wrong_ in something."

Ron stared at the man beside him, trying desperately to understand what he was saying—"but—you just said . . . you said over and over that I shouldn't try to fight her on something?"

Grippe gave him a confirming nod . . . which confused the teen even more. But then the Englishman said gravely, "that is why you must pick your battlefields with utmost care young Ronald. As I said, you should do this when Kimberly is most horribly, terribly, and completely wrong. So wrong that you can not believe that she doesn't realize that she is so terribly wrong, so wrong that under normal circumstances she would be in complete disbelief and denial of herself that she could be that horribly wrong—"

Ron looked at Grippe with open mouthed wonder. He . . . actually . . . comprehended was Grippe was saying . . . but understanding was another matter—

Grippe answered him without the question even being asked.

"People . . . not just ladies . . . like Kimberly are headstrong, forceful, determined, passionate . . . _passionate_ . . . a word that may only barely describe them but is perhaps the most important key to them Ronald. And because of that passion Ronald, if it is misplaced or misdirected or the person who possesses it is . . . somehow or someway . . . lost . . . Kimberly's passion may at some time and in some way get the better of her judgment, her common sense, the balance that keeps her upright."

Grippes eyes went inward for a moment, as if he was reliving a bad memory. "With that misdirected or lost passion may be anger Ronald . . . terrible anger made even more terrible by the insecurity which wells up like a fountain in response to her being lost. That anger . . . Kimberly's anger at a time like that . . . her anger may get the better . . . or perhaps even wipe out her normal sense of reason, it may skew her need . . . it may cause . . . "

Grippe's eyes came back to Ron, a frank, painful blackness in them from whatever the memory had been. "Ronald . . . because of that volcano of insecurity . . . Kimberly's _need_ to be what and all that she is . . . may attempt to take over everything that she truly is, all that makes her . . . her. With those feeling loose, she . . . on the inside, the insecure, the unsure, she may try to _force_ herself to be all that she is . . . but with terrible excess. There may well be a violent reaction . . . those feelings are that she can not express or confess exploding like an eruption . . . the things she can not say . . . "

At that moment, there was movement across the room. Heaving into sight from 'around the corner' of the far end came the two huge mutated gorillas. As they took a stance, eyeing the two men from across the room, DNAmy came around that same corner to a point between the two gorillas.

Amy did not look happy—

In her hands held before her she was cradling something—

"Oh Snap!" Ron breathed as he saw it.

"I would put it a little stronger Ronald," Grippe agreed. "But the sentiments are the same—"


	14. The Hunt for the Blue Fox

Dawn was breaking . . . Kim remembered reading somewhere that hope always came with the dawn. She wondered if the unknown author had been aware of the fact that there might be some (among them red-headed teenage heroes) counting on the darkness of night to hide from far too many men who wanted her captured or killed.

The increasing level of light also meant that she had no choice but to move.

Kim gingerly pushed herself out of the tiny crawlspace at the base of the large crossbar holding up the advertising sign far above a nameless multistory building roof. The whole thing was open girders, tubing and framework and only the darkness had hidden her within it, her shape/silhouette broken up by those same girders as the flashlights of the searchers scanned across it. One searcher had even climbed all the way up onto the sign to make sure that she hadn't been lying flat on the catwalk against the bottom edge in an attempt to stay out of view from below. That same searcher had walked right over her, the planks of the catwalk hiding her in that instance.

It was at the end of that same catwalk (abet underneath it) that she gripped the end struts, wincing as her cold, stiff muscles protested what she was making them do. Forcing that same chill/stiffness/pain into the back of her mind, she grabbed that end strut and pulled the rest of her body out of the crawlspace, unfolding it slowly, letting it dangle out in she didn't know how many feet of empty space—

Kim then refolded herself by bringing her legs up, all the way up and around until the soles of her boots were against the bottom of the bar (still ignoring the protests of muscle and skin), prior to leaning her head back/out/upside-down over her shoulders to pick her landing spot, gauging her distance/arc/angle—

She pushed off hard!

A back flip down and across the yawning gap between the roof mounted sign and the roof of the building across the adjacent alley—

In moments she was down, simultaneously giving her body a moment to recover (as muscles groaned and the cold, stiff lacerations that covered parts of her body screamed at the sudden ripping/tearing physical motion) while at the same time staying motionless as a statue as all her senses strained for a sign that she had been seen. It had to have been hours since she had been aware of the last of the searchers, but her impromptu tutors in evasion and escape techniques had warned her repeatedly of the possibility of observers left behind to watch for the gopher to come out of her hole.

Which was pretty much how Kim felt at the moment. From the moment she had gone out through the blocked window into the darkness, she had been running/hiding from heavily armed wolves. Things had started out okay for the room outside her closet tomb had fortunately turned out to be on the ground floor. She had burst out through the window into a small lighted parking lot enclosed by similar cottage-like buildings—and things had gone downhill from there.

It turned out to be some kind of factory complex and Kim had ran and ducked and dodged, been forced to go over or occasionally go _through_ several men (some of which may have been poor innocent factory workers without a clue as to what was happening) as the hew and cry of her escape rose behind her. It had seemed like _ages_ before she reached what had to be the perimeter fence and by that point the dogs were after her. As the top of the fence had as much razor wire on top of it as she had had metal in her mouth at the height of her braces, Kim opted to scale the nearest building and tightrope across the gap (as well as a search party that thankfully did not look up) on a set of overhead steam pipes.

What happened after that was that Kim was lost in a warren of warehouses and other factories with no concept of where she was or what direction she should head for help. She wandered about, trying to find a building that she could get into to use a phone, only to find that a veritable army of goons was descending on the area she was in.

Then the search became a hunt, and the hunt quickly became a chase . . . giving Kim a first person impression of just what it was to be the Blue Fox being chased by a pack of hungry hounds. The only good thing about it seemed to be that they chased her right out of the industrial area into a more occupied one. It took Kim some time but then she realized that she could not break overhead cover. The fact was it seemed, that every time she exposed herself to the sky, the quick result was fresh close pursuit. It finally dawned on her of the possibility of a high-flying helicopter that she could maybe just barely hear tracking her thermal image from above. Things got slower and more difficult after that as her routes and path became more torturous in order to avoid exposure to the sky.

That still didn't stop the occasion search team from spotting her—

Over time, Kim also could see from her vantage point of the roofs, during the periods when she had 'lost' the hounds and could afford to move slowly and carefully check her surroundings, that the goons were taking the time to talk to the people down on the streets around her. This left Kim with the feeling that it would probably be a good thing not to go to the local populace for help.

Finally, hours and maybe miles later, she was confronted with the fact that they had managed to 'box' her into a several block area surrounded by wide streets now sparsely used in the early morning hours. The fact that the goons had actually _shot_ at her shadowy figure at least twice had kept her from just charging through their blockade. Although she had confidence that she could evade their fire in the darkness, she had to take into consideration that the wild shots might endanger an innocent.

She was forced to go to ground . . . up in the air to evade her pursuers.

Now, Kim carefully crept to the front of the building she had just landed atop of, hoping very strongly that the copter had landed for fuel long before. The streets were beginning to fill with the awaking populace. She knew that her plan to evade would work better if she was able to disguise herself somehow. It was oh so obvious that her normal mission outfit would be enough of a clue when out in plain sight, even without the factor in that her 'normal mission outfit' wasn't all that normal at the moment. The curtains on the window she had busted through had protected her to a remarkable degree. But 'protected her to a remarkable degree' did not mean that she had emerged unscathed. She had suffered cuts on her arms, shoulders and legs, some of which had been quite nasty. Kim, having been stripped of all her equipment, had been forced to tear both of the sleeves and part of the mid-riff of her mission shirt into strips in order to bandage the wounds, exposing even more mid-riff than normal. All that extra exposed skin along with the remaining bloodstained clothing was not going to help her pass any watchers on the street.

Fortunately, some people still used clotheslines in the neighborhood . . . even if they were located on sooty pigeon-slimed roofs. Kim felt bad about it . . . because she wasn't sure that she could return the hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants she had . . . barrowed . . . but if she got caught because she hadn't used it—

Kim stepped out onto the street, trying to remember those same E&E discussions (she didn't have any 'formal' training, but had been 'lectured' by experienced military personnel assigned to or passing through both the Air Force Academy and NORAD who were students and former students of her martial arts teacher), trying to look 'normal', most definitely _not_ 'looking around in all directions for trouble' which would be a dead giveaway.

The street/sidewalk was 'busy' but not crowded. Kim made it to the end of the block before she spotted her first goon.

She made it another block—there were at least four of them, one standing/watching, the other three on the move about—

A third block—

Kim found herself entering an open square, everything suddenly clenching inside herself when she spotted a couple of uniformed policemen! She turned and started directly for them—eyes locked on her goal—

Only to walk right by them when she realized that she was being watched.

Doubt flashed through her. Could those have been phony cops? Could she trust anyone? She didn't know. But right after her sudden change of direction she had seen the two goons over 'beyond' the cops on the opposite side of the square. They had been watching the pair of officers so intently that Kim had seen them when she had looked beyond the officers at the background behind them. Now that she had passed the officers, she was headed directly toward the two goons. As she had forgotten what she had been told about not making quick, jerky movements, Kim was now afraid to suddenly change direction again. She could only mentally grit her teeth and hope that nothing happened as she went by—

The one nearest her suddenly 'looked' at her. His face went . . . unsure. Kim was coming up, getting ready to pass . . . when the goon suddenly reached out, going for the top of her head—

_He's not sure_, was Kim's lightning fast thought. _He's gonna pull my hood down to make sure_

As the goons hand grabbed the top of her sweatshirt hood, Kim ducked her head and charged ahead, allowing her arms to sweep back behind her even as the goon tried to hold her with the sweatshirt. Kim ran right out of it. She heard the yells erupt behind her—

_Gotta stick to the main streets. I'll get lost and trapped in an alley. Got to find a police station or a church or some kind of public building with an authority figure I can trust!_

Kim then heard what sounded like police whistles behind her—way behind her, probably the officers in the square she had passed—

But they were almost instantly drowned out by the roaring of a car motor _right_ behind her . . . accompanied by the shouts (in Italian of course) of people getting out of the way.

Kim put on the speed (despite the 'tearing' pain in her legs as she 'ripped' the cuts there open once again), having to start to go around or even over pedestrians who were suddenly in her path. She couldn't risk a look behind her lest she collide into something in front of her—

That was when she saw at least three cars making high-speed stops on her side of the intersection up ahead, burly goons piling out.

_Cut off—_ she thought grimly. But there was no other alternative . . . she was going to have to go right through them.

Then something was _right in front of her!!_

Kim tired to brake but didn't have time—

She plowed into the 'something' even as she realized just what it was.

_A small side alley, didn't see it until I was right on top of it. Guy on a motor scooter pulled out and stopped right in front of me to clear traffic before pulling out into the street—_

_MOTOR SCOOTER!!_

Kim was already pulling herself up out of the pile that the collision had created. Instantly she grabbed the rider, who had the look of a college student, she had him under the armpits, yanking him clear of the bike—

"_Aye?!_" he yelled even as Kim jumped over him, grabbing the scooter, pulling it upright and mounting it.

"Sorry!!" she called, trying to convey across the language barrier just how sorry— "Just Barrowing!! Real Emergency!! Please and Thank You!! I really _REALLY _owe you a favor for this!!" and with that, Kim was off, across the street and up onto the other sidewalk, trying to get around the pack of goons which had been coming over—

Two of them managed to dart back through the thick traffic to her side! Kim gunned the scooter, pulled back on the handlebars, jerked her whole body up and back, its center-of-gravity coming back over the rear wheel—

The two goons jaws dropped—nobody could make a Vespa wheelie?! But nothing was impossible for Kim Possible and the oncoming train wreck of an almost airborne scooter caused the goons to dive aside—

But now Kim's path at the far end of the sidewalk was completely blocked by the bad guys and their cars. At her speed, she couldn't get around without slowing and slowing meant arms reaching out or even a flying tackle!

Kim's eyes then lit! She suddenly became aware that there was the lower part of a handicapped ramp parallel alongside of the sidewalk before it made a sharp turn to go up into the large building on the corner. The angle was bad; the ramp was low and not really steep! The scooter really didn't have the horsepower to do what she was about to attempt!!

Kim went for it as a case of no other way out. Gunning the scooter she swerved and started up the handicapped ramp—came to the end of it—

Somehow Kim _WILLED_ the scooter airborne! There were shouts and screams—it didn't get that high—her rear wheel actually struck and 'rode' across the roof of the car blocking her path . . . but it was enough. A momentary spot opened in the traffic beyond and down she came, her teeth almost jarred out of her mouth as she crashed down amid a calliope of auto horns—

That was all she needed as she skidded into a turn away from the goons—

No . . . now she needed something else . . . like some kind of idea of where she was . . . which way she should go . . . and how to get there without getting an innocent . . . or herself . . . killed—

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A group of cars and vans, moving quietly through the early morning light, pulled up into the alley adjacent to the evil co-op warehouse. As the vehicles came to a stop, doors came open and men came out.

Heavily armed men. Shotguns and machine pistols. Those getting out of the vans were teams with military grade weapons including Light Anti-Tank Weapons containing armor piercing rockets that hopefully would take down large mutant gorillas.

At the head of the column, Spa Getty heaved his great bulk out of the back seat of his car. He didn't give his 'soldiers' a second look; they knew what to do and how to do it. He was in charge, he would have the honor of entering in victory after all resistance was eliminated after which . . .

If Hall and Grippe and the buffoon boy were still alive at the end . . . Getty would also have the honor of making sure that there would be not witnesses.

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Weaving, sliding, skidding, turning, dodging, darting . . . she didn't even have an idea how much gas she had left in the tank!

So despite her own denial, Kim was starting to get just a little bit desperate. First off . . . SHE COULDN'T BELIEVE THE TRAFFIC!! AND THE DRIVERS, DIDN'T THEY KNOW TO GET OVER TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD IF A CAR CHASE WENT BY?!

What was worse, was that several times, the small blue and white police cars had appeared with blue lights flashing . . . but Kim had gone around them as readily as she had those belonging to the bad guys because she just didn't know who she could trust.

In between—

Driveways, sidewalks, roundabouts, lanes of opposing traffic, pedestrian walkways—

Groups of men blocking the (whatever), cars blocking the (whatever), large trucks blocking the (whatever—two of which Kim had gone _under_ to avoid getting caught)—

Ropes/wires/barricades stretched across her path—

And of course, there was the unsuspecting pedestrians—

And then there was the large square . . . filled with pigeons (some of which probably didn't survive)—

Kim felt like she was deaf from all the horns and tires screeching. She was frustrated because she didn't have a firm grip on what was happening to her, she was unable to call Wade to get the info she needed to get a route to safety, an idea of who might be a good guy, some help in coming up with some kind of _plan_!

_I NEED RON AND HE ISN'T HERE! HE ISN'T WATCHING MY BACK!! HE ISN'T DISTRACTING THEM LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO COME UP WITH A PLAN!!_

. ! ? . ! ? . ! ? . ! ? . ! ?

Had she chased Ron away?

Or had he gotten caught trying to save her?

Was he . . . okay?

_RON . . . WHERE ARE YOU?_

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Inspector Polizia was not a happy man. He knew that there were at least two events happening in his city that were of the most important nature—and someone was trying to tie his hands from acting as an influencing factor in their outcome.

In the end, it all came down to politics which in the truest sense meant money, influence and control. Of those who were in control, there were those who were 'bought'; either by money or influence. They were attempting to keep the authorities from acting decisively at this critical moment. Those who were not, those who worked for freedom and justice were wondering _very_ loudly why such a spectacle was being allowed to continue—

And he was caught in the middle.

But he didn't plan on staying in the middle. He knew which side mattered the most to him. So while the factions argued, he stalked down the steps to his waiting car.

He would, as the Americans said, get the business taken care of—

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Getty's soldiers fanned out as they entered the main part of the warehouse used by Amy Hall—DNAmy. Their weapons were held at ready for they were nervous. They were use to taking on rivals and interlopers to their territory, the cops, the Federal Police. Giant Mutant Gorillas were normally a little out of their line and experience.

So there was more than a little edge to them as the moved in and spread out, the heavy weapons in the rear. But it was quiet . . . the racks where Getty had told them that Grippe and the boy buffoon had been hanging in were empty.

Their nervousness increased. The leader felt as if he should just sit down and wait to see if they were noticed. But at the same time, he knew that he couldn't . . . Getty was impatient.

So he motioned for the four who were the farthest in to scout. They didn't look happy . . . but they knew better than to argue. They started in—

Then . . . all the lights went out—

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In the end, all things . . . be they good or bad . . . come to the end. In this case, it was a combination of narrow street, heavy traffic, sidewalks blocked by large stacks of 'stuff', and a bad guy willing to ram his way through innocent's cars to literally pin Kim's scooter to the side of a large parked truck (apparently the 'moving truck' all the 'stuff' was from) that finally ended the chase.

But Kim had caught her wind during the long ride. She leapt up off of the scooter bare moments before it was pinned, narrowly avoiding having her legs trapped/crushed. Kim somersaulted over the handlebars to land on the roof of the oncoming car in front of her. Then, like a frog on Lilly pads, off she was, from car roof to car roof, yells and screams from both the bad guys and innocents adding to the din of car horns. In moments she was down the street and around the corner, for once not seeing any bad guys or their cars in front of her.

Had she finally gotten out in front of all of them. Was that why the goon had just tried to ram her, because she had broken through their in-depth encirclement? Kim didn't know the answer . . . but she could hope. So she poured on the speed, sprinting the length of the block and around another corner.

When she did so, she realized that there was a BIG open square in front of her. And she saw taxis and people who looked like tourists. Surely the bad guys wouldn't try anything there!

As she got into deeper into the big open space, she saw a huge cathedral to her left. She slowed, winded but with reserves still available. She trotted in the cathedrals direction, now hoping to see a policeman; assured that one in a place like this would not be a plant from the bad guys.

A noise that slowly registered to her ears caused her to suddenly look up. High above her was a helicopter. As she was right under it, she couldn't see any markings. Sick worry came back to her as she didn't have a clue as to which side it was on.

A possible answer was a sudden chorus of horns from the direction of the street she had entered from. Looking back over her shoulder, Kim saw several cars, now dinged and battered from their long chase of her, come into the square and turn her way.

Kim brought her head around and picked up her pace. She was going to make it into the cathedral one way or the other.

Her head was jerked back over by another sudden blaring. But this was of the local police sirens. From a street close by the cathedral, a pack of police cars came through the crowds and it too turned toward her. Kim realized that she wasn't going to get to the cathedral before either bunch of cars—

So she stopped and waited.

It took only a moment for the two convoys to deploy on either side of her, both sets stopping fifty feet away from her. Needless to say, the sight brought everything in the square to a halt. As Kim's head slowly swiveled from one set of vehicles to the other, she could see both tourists and natives pointing at her, talking among themselves. She knew that she was probably recognizable to any who might be Americans but all things considered, she couldn't count on any help—

The doors of the first car of the goon squad opened and four men, all slightly smaller versions of Getty got out. In response, the lead police cars doors opened . . . and Inspector Polizia got out.

Kim felt a huge wave of relief wash through her. With the knowledge that her back was covered, she turned to watch the goons even as she started to step carefully back towards Polizia and his men—

Only to stop, when the lead goon shook his head at her, even as one of his hands disappeared into his coat pocket, the front of which then bulged menacingly.

Kim stood stock-still. The goon was to far away to get to in a single leap . . . and there were way too many bystanders to even _think_ about risking any shots here—

Kim then felt Polizia come up behind her.

"It seems that we have," he said softly to her in an even tone, "what you Americans call a 'standoff Hispanic'."

Kim actually heard herself snort with the first humor in how long. "Close Inspector. But what do we do about it?"

"Ahhhh Signorina Possible," he said with an emotion filled sigh that caused Kim to stiffen. She DID NOT like the tone in that sigh. Her head snapped around as she sharply looked back up at him even as he continued, "do you have any idea just how much a problem this is for me and my city. Many, many people have had their property damaged or have been inconvenienced otherwise. And now, if we manage to get you out of this situation without any . . . unfortunate incident at this place, the enemies that you have made will only come after you wherever you might seek to rest. Do not think for a moment that they will not do so. And that too will endanger my city and its people. So there is really only one thing that we can do about it."

Despite the guns at her back, Kim turned fully to face Polizia, her hands going to her hips, disbelief filling her face. "That sounds like you intend to hand me over to them Inspector. I—can't believe that you would do that." But Kim felt a sudden disquieting feeling shoot through her as her eyes locked with Polizia's. Her mouth went suddenly dry even as she managed to say, "I'm warning you . . . if you try . . . I'm not going to go easily—" Kim's voice trailed off for she had suddenly realized that Polizia's men had moved in all around her. Big burly men, almost the size of Getty's goons. Her head snapping around showed her that she was blocked off from the public. She doubted that they could even see her behind the huge wall of uniforms. Two of the largest then reached out with hands and firmly took Kim by the upper arms.

Kim looked at the monstrous hands holding her. Her eyes, wide with incredulous disbelief came back up to meet Polizia's. The Inspector evenly met her stare. He could see the disbelief, the conflict in her. But at the same time, he saw the iron will which was stiffening, the determination which was just starting to reassert itself past the shock—

Then Polizia looked up over Kim's head, saying something in Italian.

There was a reply from several feet behind her, also in Italian. Kim realized that it was the voice of the leading goon who had held the concealed gun on her. Polizia and the goon conversed for several moments, exchanges of increasing sharpness going back and forth. Kim couldn't understand the words . . . but she heard the stress, the conflict in their tones.

Then the Inspector looked back to Kim, taking a moment for another, very deep, heartfelt sigh before, "my most sincere apologies Signorina Possible. I was hoping to find another way—" with that, one of Polizia's hands came out of the pocket of his trench coat—

It held a small gun with a very large silencer on it.

If Kim though that she was startled and full of disbelief before, her eyes LOCKED on Polizia's even as her entire being started to scream for each and every ability she had that could get her out of this sitch—

But she couldn't move . . . because her eyes were locked with Polizia's eyes—

. . . 'bamp!'

Kim felt the projectile hit her in the upper stomach. In complete mind-blown shock she looked down, saw the small hole in her mission shirt just above where she had ripped it to make her bandages. There was a burble of red under the hole and a trail of blood dripped down from under her shirt towards her navel—

In something worse than shock . . . Kim looked back up into Polizia's eyes—

His eyes—

"Signorina Possible—die!"

Kim looked at him for another moment more—

Eyes locked together—

Then Kim's emerald eyes rolled ever so slowly into the back of her head—

Her knees started to buckle, her weight being taken up by the arms of the two burly policemen—

Then her head lolled to the side—

Polizia wasn't watching his handiwork however; he was intently watching the lead goon—

There was disbelief/distrust in the face. But with the crowds watching . . . it wasn't as if the goon could walk up and slit the girls throat to make sure—

The goon snarled a curse at the clutch of policemen, then turned and stalked back to his vehicle.

To the murmuring of the crowd, the two policemen picked up the limp form of Kim Possible and started to carry her toward their car. Inspector Polizia, his hands once again in the pockets of his trench coat turned and followed without a glance back.


	15. Confrontations

"Was that really necessary—?"

Inspector Polizia was riding in the front passenger seat of the little police car, looking out at his city as it passed by with a cool professional eye. Nothing in his expression changed when he replied to the terse, angry voice that had grated behind him, "Signorina Possible, please remain 'dead' as long as you are visible from the outside. Not only is it very probable that the opposition will have spotters placed in order to check on your 'status' as we drive back to headquarters, not all of the officers that I was forced to draft for this incident are completely trustworthy."

Kim had been 'tossed' into the corner of the back seat of the police car where she now lay limply, head lolling against the rear door window. One of the officers who had 'caught' her was in the back with her; the other was Polizia's driver. Despite it all, she was managing to give the back of Polizia's head a most severe green-eyed-dragon look from under her barely open eyelids.

"And yes," Polizia continued, "it was necessary as so to avoid . . . what did I call it . . . an unfortunate incident. We were outnumbered, those were most desperate men and there were innocents all about—"

"As if like," Kim continued in the same oh so annoyed tone even as she followed Polizia's advice remaining 'dead', "did you actually expect the . . . opposition to fall for such a stunt?"

Just a hint of a smile came to one of the corners of Polizia's mouth. "By the expression made by your face Signorina, did you not believe it at first?"

Kim, very reluctantly (with a growl emitting from her to show just how reluctant she was) forced herself to consider this for a moment. Polizia was . . . right . . .

Part of her anger of the moment was a result of the total shock and complete horror that had hit her like a brick wall . . . the nerves and adrenalin were still coursing through her making her whole body tremble . . . for at the moment it happened . . . an all too long a moment for her, she thought that he _had_ shot her !

In hindsight Kim realized that it wasn't until the initial sting of the projectile died away and she had realized while it had struck painfully, it had not _penetrated her skin_! Yes, it felt as if she had a real good welt there—the skin might even be slightly broken, but—

"You should feel proud of yourself," Polizia continued in the same calm/cool/collected tone. "I trusted to your . . . wits of quickness to realize just what had occurred. I had faith in your well know ability to . . . I believe the word is 'improvise' . . . and that you would realize what I was trying to do when I gave you that verbal . . . hint? clue? . . . and you met my expectations for even one such as I . . . I found your . . . 'death' . . . to be most convincing."

After a . . . long teeth-grinding moment . . . Kim had to grudgingly . . ._VERY_ grudgingly admit that the Inspector was right. Somehow, she had seen in his eyes when hers were locked to his what he was trying to do . . .what he wanted her to do. When Polizia had told her to 'die', her mind had finally jerked into gear to confirm what her instincts had been trying to tell her all along—

That didn't mean that she had to be anywhere near happy about it. Besides—

"Okay," she admitted reluctantly/grumpily. "But did it fool the bad guys?"

"Probably not—" Polizia replied with assurance.

"Then why—" Kim started to jerk up—suddenly _very_ angry after all the stress of captivity, escape, flight, anguish about Ron—

"_Signorina!"_ Polizia's tone was that of command and it stopped Kim instantly.

"It is all a matter of perceptions," Polizia continued in a soft but authoritative tone as she settled herself back down. "I have a . . . reputation of both . . . as you say—unorthodox and . . . I believe the other is ruthlessness when it comes to protecting my city and its people. I am known for . . . I believe they are called ruses . . . incidents such as this, incidents which . . . may or may not be what they seem. Those with whom I am in conflict with have to accept them at face value when they occur—"

"But if the bad guys know that everything you do is a ruse?" Kim wondered, sounding as if Polizia was out of his mind—

"Not everything I do is a . . . ruse Signorina—"

Kim heard the tone . . . the infection . . . he didn't mean—did he—?

She sucked in an almost horrified breath when she realized that Polizia was saying that at times he would actually—

"Do not ask the question Signorina," and now Polizia's tone was distant. "People such as myself and those of the organization are most simply put . . . at war . . . with all the terrors, atrocities, defeats and victories that come with such a conflict. As is said in the law of your country, I will not . . . answer any question with which I may . . . incriminate myself. This is not America; we do not have your Constitution and Bill of Rights. Our laws and justice traditions are vastly different going all the way back to Roma. And then, in the last several generations, we have had the Fascists, the Nazi's, the Communists . . . with all that history . . . and all that . . . conflict . . . we have different ways and outlooks of things like this. Therefore we may . . . do things differently, perhaps quite differently."

Then his tone changed again . . . and Kim could _feel_ the steel in his voice. "_I _will . . . do whatever is . . . necessary according to the circumstances that fate gives me to accomplish my task . . . which is keeping this city and its people safe. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made, rules have to be broken . . . I believe the expression is something like . . . 'broken eggs are needed to make the omelet'. As some of my . . . ruses have in fact not been, the opposition can not take action because they do not _know_ what is real and what is false, what I will not do and even more so . . . what I _will_. In your case, I do not think that they truly believe that I would kill you. But what I did . . . in public and therefore unverifiable . . . forced them to withdraw without the confrontation that was coming. As such, based on what I have _claimed_, they must wait for proof before they . . . call my bluff? Until then, you are safe and we do not have to watch every door and window for an assassin to come and attempt to take you . . . or for them to blow up my entire headquarters killing many just to kill you. You may breathe . . . and we may plan. But in order to do both, you first must remain dead."

Kim lay there a moment, for one of the few times in her life, she was something akin to being afraid to ask the next and most prominent question in her mind—

But she had to ask—

"Inspector, if you . . . _had_ to . . . in order to protect your city . . . would you really have . . . . . . . "

"Again," Polizia's tone almost froze Kim it was so hard. "I will do . . . whatever I have to do to protect my city and people Signorina . . . . . . again, other than that, I will . . . refuse to answer . . . . . . . . . . but I will say, that confronted with such a situation, I would have tired much harder to find an alternate plan . . . but . . . in the end—"

"But I'm a guest in your country," she snapped back, horrified that an Official of the Law would ever—

"Tell me Signorina," was Polizia's tired reply, "given that situation, with us being outnumbered by them, with only two of my men being equipped with machine pistols while I can say with confidence that the members of the organization who did not get out of their vehicles did so because they were waiting poised with assault rifles—"

Kim sucked in a breath even as Polizia went on. "You know something very important Signorina. I would suspect that you have unmasked the leader of this little adventure of theirs. For that, there would be no negotiation. They would have opened fire to kill you for all of them are pledged to die before allowing the success of an error of the magnitude of your escape. And with the weapons that both sides would be required to use in that circumstance . . . what would have happened to many, many of the innocents that were standing around watching our little spectacle like of old in the coliseums."

Kim's anger ebbed, for now that she was calming down, now that she was thinking about what had almost happened—

"Yes, you are a guest in my country Signorina," Polizia said sadly. "But you are also something else. You are a hero. You yourself would have come to realize what was about to happen. What then . . . would you have done?"

It took no thought . . . for the answer was as obvious now to Kim as it had been in forethought to Polizia. It was still hard for her to say—

"I . . . I . . . I would have . . . given myself back to them—" and the tightness in her voice conveyed just how bad that would have been. For she doubted that she would have had the opportunity to escape a second time . . . at least without help from—

"Yes you would have," Polizia agreed. He then added, "and like you are now, you would have been put into the back of one of their cars and driven away . . . and you would have been dead before the car actually left the square."

Kim almost jerked her head back up—"What?!"

"They do not make the same mistake twice Signorina. That is how they have managed to survive and even flourish for hundreds of years. You have proven that you are too dangerous to hold. There would have been a small caliber bullet to your temple within moments of the cars movements."

"But—" Kim tired in to ask despite the shock.

"Yes, we would have known the 'suspects' that took you away. But no trace of your body would ever have been found. And the political resources backing the organization would make sure that the investigation died a death due to 'lacking of sufficient evidence'. There would be nothing your government could do . . . just as my shame of what my government would not do."

The tired tone came back into his voice long enough to say, "why do you think I have to be unconventional and ruthless Signorina?"

Kim was . . . almost back in shock. But as the car moved and jostled though the morning traffic, she worked to get a grip on herself. Several long minutes of reflection and thought allowed her to come to a sense of fearful awe toward the Inspector . . . a sense that she certainly hoped she would never have a chance to examine closer at any other time in her life _ever_! But she . . . at least . . . thought she understood his reasons and motivations . . . and she had to realize that she had to be grateful for what he did . . . even while she knew that she had a problem with just how he had accomplished it.

At the same time . . . Kim was also, now that she had finally stopped running, her body, her self, it was all starting to come together to convey just some of its sense of deprivation and abuse that it had suffered over the last how many hours.

Kim know that she had to take into consideration that part of her torn, twisted emotions at the moment were stemming from what she was now becoming aware within that self, within her body. She was sore beyond measure, she was feeling every single cut and scrape like a hot knife wound. She knew, despite being in Mission Mode, that she was ravenously hungry, dreadfully thirsty. She could feel just how torn and ragged she was . . . and probably looked as well, soiled in dirt and her own sweat.

But at least at this moment . . . Polizia was right . . . she could catch her breath. Not that that was, in and of itself, easy considering her current physical contortion within the police vehicle. The position into which she had been 'dumped' was not anywhere close to possibly being described as 'comfortable'. But she grimaced and bore it as at the moment. Now that her brain was closer to functioning in 'normal mode', she couldn't escape Polizia's logic, despite any desire on her part to do so.

However, her torso was far enough down and close enough to the car door that she was able to move one of her hands enough to feel her 'wound' near the top of her hard, athletic stomach. Despite Polizia's admonition, she winced as it stung (as in _really stung_) and she gave herself a mental '_eeeewwwwww_' at the sticky feeling of the 'blood' that had run down toward her navel. "Just what did you shoot me with?" she wondered.

"A standard training pistol, gas charged," was Polizia's even reply. "The silencer is fake but the gun in normal use sounds like it is being silenced so it is okay that they go together. It does not eject a normal brass empty cartridge casing, using a plastic training cartridge instead but that is one reason why my trustworthy men crowded in so close, to distract eyes from that fact as well as to retrieve the casing before someone might have noticed. It normally fires a small projectile filled with water-soluble paint to mark its 'hits'. I . . . had some special projectiles made using pigs blood—"

Now Kim said it out loud, "eeeewwwwwww." She wanted to wipe what was on her fingers _somewhere_ but she wasn't quite sure were. And if the skin was broken where the projectile had stuck her—

_Oh God, what kind of tests is mom going to have to run to see if there was some strange desease or germs that could be transferred blood-to-blood—_

"Do not worry Signorina, it was perfectly sterile—"

_Yeah, sure—_

At least Kim now had a much better idea as to what had happened. In fact, she was more than a little tweaked at herself for not recognizing/realizing earlier just what Polizia had used. She and Ron had assisted the Middleton Police Dept many times when they had been conducting officer training, sometimes as 'criminals' sometimes as 'innocent bystanders' while the officers practiced their tactics in dangerous situations. The 'Soft Oxygen' professional training guns had been used in almost all of the sitches they had participated in. Polizia's gun had either been cleaned of the pink/orange 'safety paint' used by the officers of her home town or his weapon had never treated that way in the first place for it certainly had 'looked real'. She herself had never been hit by any of the 'training munitions' paint balls but Ron had been peppered several times when he had 'attacked' the officers—

Unfortunately for Kim, that simple thought/memory immediately brought another—

"Do we know where Ron is?"

Kim saw that he question brought a 'sigh' to Polizia that was more seen than heard—

It also answered her question . . . and therefore caused the choked, shuddering deep breath from her a moment later—

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Spa Getty found that his impatience, anger and worry were all rising at about the same levels. It had been at least a half an hour since his people had gone into the warehouse. He had not heard any shots from the inside. In that respect he hadn't expected to hear pistol, submachine gun or rifle fire, but if the anti-tank weapons were used, he had expected to at least feel some of the concussion from them. At the same time, none of his men had come back out to tell him that the place had been abandoned or anything similar. He'd helped set the place up for Hall and he knew that even a careful search should have taken no more than twenty minutes. He should go in and find out—

But he also realized that . . . he was afraid to do so. If Hall had had some chemical or other otherworldly creation of the devil which had taken out all of his heavily armed men . . . his entering would only be the end of himself.

But the vehicle drivers . . . were looking at him . . . waiting . . .

It left him no choice . . . which made him even angrier. He took it out by swearing loudly, kicking the open car door so hard that it came half off of its hinges. With a snarl he grabbed the shotgun out of the trunk of his vehicle, gave the drivers a glare that would have melted steel, a glare which conveyed his message as they immediately gathered their own weapons and (reluctantly for they guessed the chain of events as Getty had) they moved over toward the door to the warehouse.

Unfortunately, Getty knew that he would have to enter first.

The other unfortunate thing was that . . . all the lights were out . . . and the entrance to Hall's 'co-op' unit was down a hall and around a couple of corners so there would be no light from the outside door.

And no one had a flashlight.

They were forced to use a couple of the driver's lighters.

Which . . . once they entered the big open space in Halls unit, did almost no good. Some of the telltales on Halls machines were glowing on the far side of the bay but that was the only other illumination other than the lighters. One of the drivers equipped with one, was working his way along the wall from the door, trying to find a light switch—

There was enough time/light for him to see what just might have been a pink blur shoot across the floor before he _felt_ something scramble up his leg. The driver screamed and not wanting to drop his weapon, he dropped the lighter, freeing that hand to frantically try to brush whatever it was off of him.

The mans scream caused Getty and all of the other drivers to spin around toward him, all of their weapons coming up—

In the moment the weapons reached their shoulders, something . . . weird heart-piercing screeches . . . the flapping of wings beating at their heads and shoulders even and _something_ grabbed onto their raised weapons with incredibly powerful grips, snatching the weapons out of their hands—

Getty knew; he was the only one who _knew_ and understood what was happening. He gave out a roar as he ducked and spun around, his own iron grip ripping his shotgun back into his grasp. He continued to duck and spin and weave as he struggled to get his hands on the weapons fore stock and grip, bellowing like an enraged bear as he came up, pointing up and fired upwards into the darkness, into the hoard of flapping wings.

Something screamed—an ungodly—unholy—alien scream—

Somebody—a woman almost immediately joined with another scream from across the bay—

That was all Getty needed. Even as he jacked the action back/forth, he brought the muzzle around and down, aiming for the hysterical voice of the woman, recognizing/knowing the voice was that of Amy Hall—

Then, from Gettys left—

The flash/roar was like lightning, Getty felt the weapon in his hands tear out of his grip and go clattering away across the floor even as a commanding voice boomed out from the spot of the flash/thunder, "Ronald! The Lights!"

The bay was instantly filled with brightness even as that same voice barked in Italian, _"The first one to move has his spine blown out of his back! Weapons down! Hands raised!"_

Getty squinted against the brightness. He looked toward the voice and couldn't suppress a grown as Hannibal Grippe, who was just in the process of pushing his Thermal Imaging Goggles back up onto his forehead even as his other hand held the huge (for someone Grippe's stature) blue steel revolver in a steady back and forth motion searching for its next target, moved away from the stack of crates which had given him cover. Getty glanced over to his shotgun. Grippe's .357Magnum round had stuck the weapons receiver square in the side nearly shattering it—an incredible shot under those circumstances. Getty considered the shattered weapon for a moment. Grippe was having to cover all his men as well as him . . . and Getty still had the pistol in his pocket—

Another female scream close at hand brought Getty's head back around. Hall had run across the bay, she was just kneeling on the ground meters from him, picking up and cradling one of those devil cat/birds. There were feathers and blood on the floor . . . Getty hoped that he had killed the hell-spawned creature. Getty's vision then jerked up as somebody else walked into its field.

Getty snorted. It was Possible's buffoon male. The boy was gazing at Hall and the creature in pale-faced horror as he walked up behind the grieving woman. The boy's hand came out to touch Halls shoulder in support even as the boy knelt down beside her. All the other little monsters were flapping down around the pair, making a aching keening like an out-of-tune organ as they did so.

One of his men called his name. Getty looked back over at them only to survive a moment of shock. The mutant gorillas had finally appeared from somewhere, and they were literally picking his men up in one of their hands. The beasts were using their other hands to pull his men's arms behind them—

Why—

Getty then saw a flash of pink . . . it was the buffoon's little rat. It had just appeared from the back of the bay, one arm loaded with plastic wiring ties . . . which the little vermin proceeded to expertly use, as he jumped up into the gorillas forearms, using the plastic ties to bind Getty's men's hands behind their backs.

"Why don't you step over to your men for a little spot of the same treatment old boy?"

Getty didn't even turn his eyes to Grippe. He did turn his head enough to spit onto the floor in front of the Englishman. Getty then squared his shoulders. "I will not be taken. Either shoot me now, or shoot me when I turn to rip your throat out."

Getty heard a 'smile' in Grippe's voice. "I actually was hoping that you would say something like that—" and Getty heard the hammer of the revolver cocked back. Getty took a breath and slipped a hand into his pants pocket—

"As you wish old boy—" he heard Grippe say with a mental image of the big revolver coming up to the short mans eye.

"I wish you would reconsider as if you shoot me now . . . we all die."

A band of steel tension erupted around the two men. After a very long moment, Grippe asked in a careful voice, "what kind of mischief are you up to Spa?"

The huge Italian slowly turned to the little Englishman, carefully withdrawing his hand from his pants pocket as he did so. What he had, in his hand, was a small electronic box, with a very large red button, which was now being held firmly down by Gettys finger.

To his credit, Grippe just gave his head a little shake and blew out a tired breath. "I assume that to mean, that you obtained a copy of the villain co-op self destruct code, entered it into you little trigger there, activated it when you pushed down on the button . . . with the understanding that if you now take your finger _off_ the button . . . an act that could very well occur if I plant a bullet into your guts . . . after which this entire building will blow higher then the British gas tax."

Getty just smiled—

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"Signorina?!"

Kim flat out didn't care how annoyed Inspector Polizia was. As soon as her 'body' was carried directly from his car into the 'morgue' in the basement of the station, with an athletic twist, she had dropped to her hands and knees (barely suppressing a cry at the pain of doing so—but she was in a hurry) between the men who had had her and she had darted away across the office to the first computer she saw.

"Does this hook into the net?!" she demanded as she sent someone's papers which had been on the keyboard flying.

"Yes," Polizia sighed in a resigned way even as he waved the two officers back out the door. Without a further look, he went over to a phone to check for updates from his office upstairs.

Kim meanwhile had managed to get hooked into the net despite the lack of English on the screen. She didn't need to read a word of Italian for she rapidly typed onto the command line, ''.

"Comon—" she urged the older machine, all too use to the ones Wade always provided which had cutting edge technology. While she was waiting, she peeled out of the 'barrowed' sweat pants if for no other reason than having an outlet for expending way too much nervous energy. Finally her home page came up, she hit the 'contact' link and in the first field on the top of the page used by so many people all over the world to call her-beep her, she typed in 'wadesworld'.

"Please Wade, don't be in the bathroom or—"

Then the computer lit up as if it seemed that something had taken sudden control of it. Message screens and alerts flashed across Kim's eyes as files and programs where rammed through the link and into the machines memory and hard drive. It took almost ninety seconds for it all to take hold—

Then Wade's face appeared on the screen in front of her. Her computer didn't have either a cam or mike so it wasn't their normal two-way communication but as fast as Wade typed, his entire lines/statements appeared on the screen almost instantly.

KIM! THE LINK SHOWS THAT YOU'RE IN THE MORGUE OF THE MALIAN POLICE STATION. ARE YOU OKAY?

Kim for her part, spoke as she typed, it helped her think that she was actually 'talking' to her friend.

"I'm okay, was captured by Getty and his goons. Escaped, got banged up a little bit, was chased and Polizia 'faked' my death to get me free so any news alerts about me being carried away limp in a police car are a part of the ruse. WHERE'S RON?"

It seemed that it was almost instantly that Wade was came back with several paragraphs. Kim's face/eyes went through the whole gamut of expressions as she read about how Ron had working at healing the owlcelot even as Wade found DNAmys lab and the subsequent assault on the location . . . which Ron oh-so screwed up in typical Ron fashion by not paying attention to the details—

That didn't stop Kim from biting her already cut lower lip however, her thoughts too concentrated to really feel the pain it caused. Amy wasn't the kind to set up an elaborate plan to execute her captives . . . but she would perform experiments on them. Only God knew what Ron had been turned into at this point so—

"Got the sitch," she typed back. "Send me the loc and the stats of the alarms and such. I'll clear things with Polizia and go get Ron. Stay ready in case I have to turn him back into himse—"

"Signorina Possible?"

Kim's head snapped up to see Polizia in front of her on the other side of the counter where she was sitting . . . his look/tone—

"You might have heard me mention that there were 'two' events currently happening in my city?"

Kim knew instantly, "Getty went after Ron and Grippe. That's why he wasn't with the gang chasing me. Something's happened to Ron—" with that, Kim typed a quick stat to Wade, a message flashed back with the info she'd requested, she hit print before she was out of the chair, ripping the needed location/security info off of the printer even as she was heading for the door—

"Get your car Inspector. We're going there right now!"

"Signorina—"

Kim spun on him. "Your car Inspector . . . " and even Polizia was forced to react to the unbending steel in her voice, "or I'll be right out in front of your station screaming at the top of my voice for a taxi . . . and I promise that I won't be very 'dead' while I'm doing it."

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"You . . . animal . . . "

Getty was . . . momentarily taken aback by the voice to his side. Keeping half an eye on Grippe (and a good hold of the trigger in his hand), he turned his head. Kim Possible's inept and worthless boy-friend was standing in a stance of challenge, an outstretched arm with accusing pointed finger thrust out at him. Getty had to actually restrain an urge to laugh.

"Ronald," came Grippes voice from in front of him. "Please do not attempt to depreciate the situation. In case you haven't noticed—"

"I saw it Han," was Ron's rock cold reply. "Now the question is, is he a fool to use it or a coward not to use it. I mean he is a coward isn't he? Indiscriminately shooting about, hurting the very creatures he had Amy create to further his own incredibly hopeless plans—"

"Shut your words worthless one!" Getty snarled, all of his attention now on the blond boy. "I could break you with two fingers of one hand."

Grippe could _see_ the anger and determination in Ron's face as the boy replied, "I know you could. Anybody with a body of fat like yours could break someone skinny like me. The problem is the _fat_ in between your ears where your brain should be."

Grippe saw Getty draw himself up to his full height, face going red . . . and he firmly put a hand on the urges/demands within himself to tell the boy to shut up before he got them all blown up. Grippe had read some very interesting things in those confidential reports about Ron Stoppable, all of it speculation based on what little was known, none of it verified other than the boys time spent at Yamaguchi and the unsubstantiated rumors that at an unknown time and place, young Ronald had apparently been exposed somehow to the mystical side of Ti-Shing-Pec-Whar. That . . . when added to what Grippe now saw radiating from the face of young Stoppable told him that this was not the time to interfere.

Getty was in the process of shaking his head and sneering, "and you are a weak coward boy! You stand there and bait me as it is the only way you can challenge me for the whole world knows how you run at the first sign of danger. If it wasn't for that slut you call a girlfriend, you would have crawled back under your mothers dress skirt long ago."

Grippe withheld a 'gasp' as Ron slowly pulled his arm back down to his side. Had that been just a hint of a 'glow' that had passed through the boy's eyes when Getty had called Kimberly a slut?

"Fine," Ron answered in a tone harder than steel. "Tell you what we're going to do then Mr. Macaroni and Marinara name. A tub of lard like you against a coward like me. If you drop the trigger, I'll tell Mr. Grippe there to put away his gun. Then, if a lumbering load of lard like you can catch me with all my Mad Running Skills, I'll _let_ you break me in half and you and all your men walk out of here. My word on that against your word that you'll let Amy, all her pets and Han go—"

Getty snorted, "you are insane boy. A real man knows his limits and although I am all muscle without an once of fat, I could not catch you in a place such as we are now. Then comes the fact that I can not let the honorable Grippe go; he knows too much . . . as does Hall . . . and all of her mad creations need to be disposed of as well for they are against man and God. So it is no resolution that you offer . . . and I will not bargain or talk with one so worthless as you in the first place."

"Spa, why are you so afraid of the lad—"

Getty's head snapped around to snarl at Grippe, "and you keep your silence oh-so-little-of-a-man. If you only knew how many times I was tempted to squash you flat—"

Grippe looked Getty right in the eye, "as you said Spa, a man has to know his limitation. And you know yours and that is why your afraid of the lad . . . just as you are and always have been afraid of me. Because you know my reputation is well deserved . . . especially the part that no one talks about. You know Ms. Possible's reputation is true although you can not admit it and try to keep your manhood. When you add what you suspect about young Ronald here, why he is able to be Kimberly's 'partner' . . . and like the parts of _my_ reputation that are always unspoken . . . what might young Ronald here have about him that is also . . . unspoken?"

"Enough of this," Getty growled with a wave of his other hand. "For all I know, you are stalling having called that cursed Inspector when I came into the building. You will release all my men and their weapons, then submit yourself to me. Your time is running out."

Ron and Grippe glanced at each other, a look passed between them, a look that included Ron's head giving an ever so slight cock and nod to the side. Grippe's eyes snapped a look over toward where Ron's nod had indicated . . . then an infinitesimal nod back toward Ron—

Grippe's head and hand dropped as he moved to place his revolver back into the shoulder holster under his coat, "have it your way Spa old boy, go ahead and push the button—"

"What—" the huge man sputtered.

Ron had crossed his arms with an annoyed face, "awww, here we go. The big man is suddenly realizing that this is a no-win situation and that the only way out is for us all to go boom-boom." Ron then locked his annoyed glare on Getty, "come on . . . get it over with. I want to see if the hereafter is everything my Rabbi described."

"What—" was all Getty could manage again—

"Get it over with Fat Guy—" Ron challenged.

"Blow us all to Kingdom come Spa. Save what little honor you have—"

At the crack about his honor, Getty turned on Grippe—

A pink blur shot across the floor, launched itself at the huge man, latched onto the wrist of Getty's hand that held the device—

Two very large teeth sank themselves into the muscles/tendons on the back of that massive hand/wrist even as a lithe, flexible body entwined itself around that same hand in order for two powerful hind paws to catch the little metal box held in the palm—

Getty screamed, jerking his hand in powerful unconscious reaction—

Rufus went sailing away, rear paws pressing the control box between them to continue to hold the button down, twisting as he flew threw the air to change from back to front paws in order to shift the box to where he could reach the little switches on the back—

Ron was backpedaling, sidestepping, legs flashing like a dancer as his eyes were locked skyward on the form of his friend, hands open and ready as if to catch a football—

Knowing that if he dropped this pass, it was the end of the game for all of them.

Getty was pirouetting wildly, trying to figure out just what had happened, blood flinging from the huge wound in the back of his hand—

Grippe was charging Getty head down, the plan was to hit Gettys knee or ankle hard enough to break the bone and bring the big man down—

Nobody saw the handgun in Getty's other pocket until it was out and rising on Grippe . . . whose eyes went wide . . . there wasn't even time to shout—

Then, with an inhuman squeal of anger and pain, an orange/black blur shot past Grippe, launched, landed on Getty's outstretched arm with enough force to knock it aside even as the gun fired—

"Spot!" Ron was able to yell from across the room even as Rufus came down into his grip—

Getty screamed again as a buzz saw of claws and teeth started to savage his arm. In a single fluid movement, he dropped the gun, his other Rufus-injured hand whipping around to grab at the seam of his jacket at the shoulder—

Getty ripped the entire arm off of his jacket, Spot being torn off as well. Getty hurled the whole mess, fabric/owlcelot and blood toward Grippe who was off his feet having skidded madly about to try to get out of the line of fire. Fabric, owlcelot and small man piled up into a ball, going down even as Getty's hand, (the one injured by Rufus for the one attacked by Spot was a ripped wreak), dropped down for the gun at his feet.

Ron, across the bay, down on one knee, attention torn between watching Rufus gingerly reset the activation switch and the fact that his other friends across the floor were about to be—

Grippe saw the handgun come up. He grabbed Spot into himself, wrapped himself about the crying-in-pain owlcelot, twisting about amid the tangle to get his back toward Getty—

Getty fired, the round hitting Grippe in the middle of the back, the small mans whole form lurching forward from the force of the impact—

But before Getty could fire a second time, the pink blur flashed back into his vision, shaped like an arrowhead, arcing across the space from the direction of the buffoon like a thrown hardball—

Ron had thrown Rufus with all his might; the Mole Rat hit the gun in the outstretched hand square, wrapping his limbs about it even as he violently twisted about, ripping the weapon out of Getty's grasp.

Now Getty roared in rage, turning as he did so to go after the ballistic ball that was the Mole Rat and his weapon—

Before something very powerful kicked him in the back of his head.

Stars exploded behind Getty's eyes even as the force of the blow drove him forward/down onto his knees. As Getty fought the stars in his vision . . . he felt what could only be thin arms going around his neck. It took more than a moment for it was difficult for him to believe that something of this nature was happening to him . . . TO HIM! But realize he did, the exact realization that someone was trying to put a chokehold on him. Getty roared again through the haze in his head, trying to get his feet under him even as his wounded/bleeding hands came up to grab at the arms on his neck.

"I really don't think so," Getty heard, disbelief filling him when he realized that the voice talking into his ear was that of the unworthy Stoppable, hate erupting in him as he lurched to his feet for he would rip the weakling off of his neck, throw him to the floor in front of him where Getty would then literally stomp the life out of the insolent boy—

The boy who, the moment Gettys mangled hands tried grabbing at the arms that the boy had around his neck, skinny arms that couldn't go completely all the way around that hugely massive neck, a hold which left the hands belonging to those skinny arms adjacent to certain parts of Getty's neck.

Parts that had nerves . . . pressure points . . . places and points on the human body long known to the oriental practitioners of both acupuncture and the martial arts—

Getty stopped his roar . . . and everything else as all of his body from the neck down went numb—

Hannibal Grippe, pulled himself up and around, his huge Smith & Wesson once again in his hand even as his other hand cuddled and protected Spot under his coat, his coat with the sheets of Kevlar bullet proof fabric sewn all through it . . . his eyes going wide as he saw Ron Stoppable hanging down Getty's back like a child hanging from his fathers neck, hanging by arms that now constricted around that neck—

Getty's eyes rolled up into his head even as his tongue lolled out as Ron locked up the bar-arm choke hold and clamped down—

Getty twirled, swirled, pirouetted about—gasping—eyes bugging out—face filling with panic— he stumbled—

Like a great tree crashing down, Getty collapsed straight down in front of him—

A moment later, Ron arose from the back of the wreckage that had been Spalatore Getty, Grippe noting as the boy did so, the most serious look on the young heroes face—

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A/N If I have been kind of quiet via the Authors Notes, it's because I've been using the opportunity provided by actually writing most of this story before starting to publish it in order to get some other things done. One of the things to get done has been to get back to doing some reading of other peoples works—and that I have with pure enjoyment along the way.

For I've been totally immersed in Commander Argus 'It Finally Happened/The Trinity Sitch', all twenty-one stories/1,273,576 words of it. I readily admit that I'm as green as a Mallard Duck by his superb telling of such a story wherein he dwells more with Kim and Ron's everyday lives/feelings/changes than just a 'pure adventure'. It has been a pure joy, the kind where I had to force myself to stop in order to go to bed, eagerly looking forward to the next nights reading.

The only negative is the fact that there are stories unfinished. I hope that sometime in the near future he can find the time to work on, 'Meet the Rockwallers', 'KP-The Light at the End' and 'Heart of the Fury'. I know that I'll be right there if he does.

In the meantime, I want to thank everyone who has been reading this little ditty. Your attention is also a joy and to those who take the time to review, that effort is always appreciated.


	16. Collateral Damage

Kim Possible was angry—

_If Ron had had his head in the game, he wouldn't be in a sitch like this—_

She was once again sitting in the back seat of Polizia's police car as it 'screamed' its way through the crowded city streets—

_All the times we've hit lairs, that we've been in and around villain co-ops, you would think that he would have LEARNED!_

She was staring out of the window beside her . . . not seeing anything for her eyes were turned inward—

_At least Grippe should have known better . . . and he should have taken Ron in hand and been in charge!_

One hand was held up in front of her chin, the fingers trembling—

_THAT was why he wasn't there to watch my back! He probably didn't even make it HARD for Amy and her gorillas!_

She had this . . . crazy desire to start biting her fingernails—

_THIS is why I don't let you take the lead on missions! You don't think ahead! You don't consider the details!_

Her whole body was trembling . . . and it was no longer from adrenalin—

_Not only were you NOT there when I needed you, you got caught without any chance of backup because you didn't come for ME first!_

Her stomach was tied so tightly into knots that she was almost nauseous—

_If something has happened to you because of this bonehead stunt, I'm going to KILL you!_

Polizia's voice drifted back to her, "almost there Signorina—"

Kim closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath—

_Head in the game Kim—_

_Ron! I'm coming!_

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Polizia's driver pulled in carefully against the wall of the cross street down from the target building. Kim was out of the car before it completely stopped moving, an obviously irritated Inspector coming out behind her as she was already sliding along the wall to the intersection corner.

Kim's senses scanned the roadway before them. All the cars from the bad guy convoy stood quiet and abandoned. The door into the co-op was open with no sign of movement or other activity.

Kim then sensed Polizia behind her; she ignored his irritation because she knew that he was about to get even more irritated—

"Signorina . . ." he started, then choked back a louder exclamation as she left the cover of the corner, sprinted across the roadway to the wall of the co-op and moved in a rapid duck walk crouch against that wall, making her way rapidly down, going extra low as she passed the vans. In another moment she was at the co-op door.

Kim took the time to glance back over her shoulder. Polizia, handgun drawn, followed by his driver with a submachine gun, were only about halfway down from the corner, moving much more cautiously than she had.

She then looked to the door; she didn't intend to wait, if for no other reason than not wanting the two policemen in the way if she had to go into action against a bunch of Getty's goons. She slipped into the door; saw the sign on the wall that directed towards 'Amy Hall-DNA' to the left.

When she had made the appropriate twists and turns, she saw the next door, also open. Kim could tell that at least after the dark hallways, that the lights were on in Amy's bay. She could also hear some kind of noise that she couldn't make out—

It would only take her a moment to find out—

When Kim poked her head around, her eyes went as far open as her mouth—

Spa Getty was sitting in the middle of the floor, his back to the door where Kim was, his arms were bound with chains around his arms/elbows pulling them tightly across his back to secure him, to deny him the leverage to try to strain out of them—

And maybe for another reason. Han Grippe working with what looked like bandaging on the huge mans hands and forearms. There looked to be a bit of blood and other things on the floor around the two men—

And then Kim noticed that it wasn't just the two men. An owlcelot with bandaged wings was sitting right next to Grippe, apparently intently watching what the little man was doing to the huge man before them.

Kim's eyes then continued her sweep. On the opposite side of the bay toward/near her was a group of bound men were sitting dejectedly on the floor, surrounded by Amy's huge mutant gorillas being supervised by a very grim faced Rufus. Kim of course couldn't trust her reading of the gorilla's faces, but the eyes were cold . . . hateful.

It was toward the far back however—

DNAmy was standing with her face in her hands . . .sobbing. Kim now realized what the noise she had heard had been as she had been approaching. Kim's own throat choked up from something unknown for—

Kim saw Ron, on his knees next to Amy, surrounded by what had to be all of the remaining owlcelots, doing something on the ground. Kim recognized that what she was feeling was fear for Ron mixing unevenly with her joy and relief on seeing him alive. The source of her fear was . . . his face, something that she could see, something that she could instinctively know even with the distance separating them. Ron was . . . he had just finished wrapping . . . something in a towel or blanket . . . a bloody towel or blanket . . . it had been lying still on the ground before him.

Kim saw Ron slowly got to his feet, gently picking the bundle up with him, the look of hurt and loss on his face was only too plain to her who knew him so well, finishing her realization as to what must have happened.

Her joy at seeing him . . . twisted into grief for him . . .

Kim heard a noise behind that caused her head to snap around. It was a most unhappy Polizia and his driver just coming down the interior hall. Kim made a halting motion even as she stood fully onto her own feet, all pretense of stealth and cover gone. The Inspector and the policeman came to their own feet slowly, their only clue as to the situation being the look on Kim's face.

The pained, worried, sick-with-grief-for-a-loved-one look that could never be adequately described—

Kim turned back to look into the bay in time to see Ron start to carry the wrapped body toward a doorway at the back, Amy following her head still lowered in sobs even as—

Even as the hoard of owlcelots suddenly leaned their heads back and gave a crooning cry that brought both tears to Kim's eyes with its beauty and a cold hand clutching her entire being with its grief—

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Hannibal Grippe, Inspector Polizia, DNAmy Hall, Ron Stoppable and Kim Possible all stood together in a tight little group and watched a platoon of Polizia's men escort Spa Getty and his goons out of the bay door. Amy had a pair of uniformed policemen to each side of her, her very, very large mutant gorilla's and the entire 'flock' of DNA generated owlcelots were gathered right behind her.

All accept one that is, an owlcelot with bandaged wings which was currently resting wrapped around the neck/shoulders of Han Grippe (with absolutely no space left over for wiggle room). It too watched as Getty was led, being the last in the procession out the door. The owlcelot atop Grippe gave a deep 'hooting growl' as the killer of his kin exited without a look back.

Kim sighed and turned her head to look at Ron, seeing the anger still flaming in his eyes. She was . . . wondering . . . and worried. Ron's first sight of her had been when he had returned to the main bay after taking the murdered owlcelot back to 'the nest'. At that moment, Kim had seen the anger in Ron . . . and a small part of her wondered if some of that anger was . . . directed at her for not being there to watch his back when he had needed her . . . anger at the fact that maybe she could have done something to prevent what had happened.

Ron had seen Kim, sleeves and part of the mid-riff ripped off her mission shirt, hands/forearms/knees bandaged with the strips from that shirt, a dark stain/bruise on her flat stomach, a swollen and bruised cheek, a cut fat lip, her red mane as mussed and dirty as the remainder of her mission clothes were torn and stained—

And he without a word, walked over to her and engulfed her in his arms, something that almost shocked Kim until she felt the need in him—

And need that only she could fill for him.

And that made her . . . humble . . . for after everything else that had happened between them, the fact that only she could give Ron the comfort and silent support that he needed made her feel—

"Kimmie?"

Kim . . . for a moment wanted to shake her head . . . she hadn't heard that had she?

But she turned, for Amy was looking right at her with a expression that, despite it all, just wanted to make Kim's heart break.

"I—" Amy started, having to stop and grip herself, "I'd like you to do a favor for me."

"What is it?" Kim didn't even hesitate.

"Please make sure that all the Cuddle Buddies get back to their rightful owners." There was actually pleading in Amy's eyes. "I know that all the owners . . . have to love them . . . just as much as you and I do . . . and it's not right that I . . . tried to keep something like them . . . cause I now know . . . how much I would miss them if someone took them from me." Amy's head dropped and the tears were flowing, "I understand that now . . . now that Tigger Tiger Tawny is . . . is . . . gone."

Kim felt no triumph, no sense of victory. Amy of course had named each and every one of the owlcelots. Tigger Tiger Tawny was the one which had been—

"I will," Kim promised.

"And I," Grippe said softly even as one hand gently scratched under the chin of the owlcelot over his shoulder, "will make sure that all your other friends (he nodded at the gorilla's and other owlcelots) are properly cared for."

"Thank you," Amy said in a near whisper. Polizia then nodded and the two policemen gently ushered Amy toward the door.

They all watched until Amy too vanished out through the door. Kim felt Ron kind of sag beside her and she willed him strength through the hand they were holding.

"A most interesting woman." Grippe said with feeling. Kim and Polizia both gave him questioning looks. Grippe returned their looks with a smile that had no humor in it even as he explained, "when she came back to Ronald and I, she was holding Spot (the owl head rubbed catlike against the side of Grippe's head at the mention of the creatures 'name') in her arms looking most unhappy. The two of us truly thought that our moments were numbered. But it seemed that the ever-intrepid Rufus (and now Grippe nodded at the cargo pocket on Ron's mission pants were the Mole Rat had gone to recharge his batteries) had, with Spot's . . . explanation as to what had happened, managed to convince the brood (a nod toward the group of owlcelots) that he was reuniting Spot with them. It seemed that they, the brood, were unconvinced but they decided to bring Spot and Rufus before Amy for a decision. Ms. Hall of course recognized Rufus, saw Spots condition and came to the correct conclusion that we had rescued and attended to Spots needs."

Grippe turned his head and glanced at the disks where he and Ron had been hanging. "When she came back in, Ronald and I believed that she had come to extract some kind of revenge on us. But the opposite was true. Our humane, compassionate treatment of Spot combined with the threats made by Getty when she refused to cooperate with him in our murder, caused in Hall the decision to resist Getty when he returned." Grippe shook his head slightly as if there was still something escaping his understanding. "What I do not fathom is what did she intend to do with Ronald and I in the first place. If she did not intend to 'erase' us as witnesses, what did she intend to do? It was as if she had not given it any thought."

Kim pondered this a moment, then started to open her mouth.

"Amy is like a little kid," and her head snapped around to look at her BFBF, surprised by the 'maturity' in his voice.

Ron snorted, his eyes on Grippe, his eyes most definitely not looking toward his BFGF, "In some ways, she and I are a lot alike. Kind of living in a fantasy world, not wanting to acknowledge reality. Always looking beyond today, looking at tomorrow and what new things it will bring but at the same time not wanting to deal with things and details that need to be addressed now. Of course, her having all the Cuddle Buddies fogged her brain right from the time she got them. Eventually she would have realized that she had to do something with us. What that would have been—" Ron ended his statement with a shrug.

Polizia blew out a breath. "Well, at least this may now all be brought to a close." He looked at Ron and Grippe asking, "we will need statements for our reports. I have heard enough from Getty's men to know that the majority of them were disarmed and captured by the . . . owlcelots (the Inspector glanced at the brood with a smile). That was interesting planning on someone's part."

Grippe nodded at Ron. "It was a plan that we all worked out together. Ms. Hall instructed the brood to provide us the cover. Getty's men were disarmed by the owlcelots flying in the darkness, their presence and unearthly sound causing even these hardboiled men to lose their nerve. Once they were disarmed, Ms Halls gorillas grabbed each and every one in succession and held them while were actually taken into custody by Ronald and Rufus using the plastic ties. In case of an untoward incident, I maintained cover with my weapon ready to take action if necessary." He blew out a tired breath. "There was a considerably larger force than I had anticipated under Getty's command. It was fortunate that the owlcelots kept up their assaults even after the thugs were disarmed. That allowed for the yelling and screaming of the blighters as they were grabbed to be masked by the general calamity and kept those who were as yet unsecured from being able to get their wits about them."

"But Getty fought," Polizia said it as a statement rather than a question.

"But Han kicked his butt," Ron said suddenly with thick admiration in his voice.

Grippe's face didn't move . . . which was fortunate because both Polizia and Kimberly were looking at him, the trenchcoated Inspector of Police and the redheaded teen hero giving little nods a moment later as they came to the understanding and the acceptance of what Ron had just said—

And being that both the Inspector and his girlfriend Kimberly had all their attention focused on the Englishman, neither of them could see the look of pleading appeal on the face of Ron Stoppable as his eyes locked with those of Hannibal Grippe—

Han gave just the littlest of smiles, "it was nothing, just a trifle." Nether Polizia or Kim realized that the smile was for the blond headed boy, a smile of understanding and acknowledgement.

Polizia shook his head as he puzzled. "You will have to show me just how you did it Signor Grippe."

"Aahhh," Han managed as his head turned to make eye contact with the creature draped over his shoulders (which gave what sounded like a 'hooting chuckle' in return), "yes well, I will have to think about it Inspector. It all happened all so fast. Martial Arts and muscle memory reactions and all that."

Han Grippe then gave a certain blond-haired boy a shrewd sidelong glance adding, "yes, something very much like the monkey riding the back of the raging water buffalo . . . until the buffalo runs out of breath."

"I'm sure it will be fascinating," was the Inspectors reply.

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"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine KP, but you, do we need to get you to a doctor?"

"Ron, you can't be fine. I can see the look in your face, in your eyes—"

"KP . . . yes it hurts . . . but I can't get sick or infections or die from it. We need to have you see someone."

"Polizia's going to take me Ron, it's the least he can do since he shot me—"

" . . . . . he did what??"

"Amp down Ron, he did it with a phony gun to save my life."

" . . . . . you don't sound very happy about it KP . . . it must . . . it must have been . . . and I wasn't—"

"Don't start Ron! I wasn't there for you either when you needed me—"

"KP—"

"Ron please . . . right now, the last thing I want to do is argue. And you're going to have to go with Grippe and Polizia has to take me and I know that right now, your holding me as tight as you can and that feels so good and I'm so sorr—"

"Kim, lets not talk about fault and sorry and all that right now either. There'll be time for that later. I . . . I . . . it feels so good to hold you—"

"Then just hold me Ron—"

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Kim stood with her arms crossed in front of her as the last of the heavily armed security officers carried the last of the armored cases out of DNAmy's co-op. This stance kept her shoulders from slumping, made her keep her head upright, allowed her to lock her knees so that her legs didn't buckle. She guessed that it had been sixty hours since she had woken to that very uncomfortable Sunday morning breakfast with Ron where Polizia's 'furry' feather had broken the case wide open and other than the fitful dozing that she had done while hanging in the blacked out closet or while she was hiding in the rooftop sign crawlspace she had not slept. Now in the late afternoon, with the last of her 'chores' about to be completed, she knew that she should be looking forward to some sleep time.

But she was unsure if she was going to physically be able to sleep. Since the exertions of the morning had worn off, her body had stated to tell her in most certain terms that it was not happy with the way it had been treated. Her entire 'backside', from the bottom of her butt to the back of her head was letting its discomfort be known over the abuse from her 'hanging' to escape which only added to the protests from her arms and shoulders from the straight hanging-from-the-meathook that had lasted however long. The lacerations from glass and scooter crash on face, shoulders, arms, legs, and knees had been treated but they still spoke up occasionally when she moved the wrong way.

She wanted to 'shoot' Polizia for the massive tender welt on her upper stomach from being 'shot'. Part of it peeked out from under her mission shirt (Grippe had had a courier pick up her backpack from his villa which allowed her to change into her spare mission clothes while at the police medical center and at least run a comb through her hair).

The skin had in fact been slightly broken at the point of impact requiring a band-aid that kept rubbing uncomfortably against her replacement shirt. Kim knew that the reality was that the small wound would actually cause her the least amount of pain verses all of her other injuries—

It was just the most mentally troubling

And then . . . there were all her other problems and 'issues'.

Ron had had to go off with Grippe to address the disposition of the gorilla's and the owlcelots. They . . . she and Ron . . . they . . . hadn't had a chance to talk about anything . . . they hadn't _wanted_ to talk about it . . .

That . . . worried her . . .

But . . . . . .

Kim knew that she was too worn, too tired, too anything to try and sort all the things that were whirling in her head and hurting her heart, but at the same time—

Kim heard the scrunching of tires behind her and glanced back over her shoulder to see a big black car pull up behind her. She only gave it a glance as the supervisor of the security detail came up to her, offering her a clipboard for a signature accepting that all the Cuddle Buddies had been safely picked up. Polizia had told her that he would send a car for her when the job was done, a car that would take her to the hotel that the City of Milan was paying for so that she and Ron might get a good nights rest before the Mayor paid his thanks to Team Possible in a small ceremony in the morning.

Kim signed the document, glanced over to where the superintendent of the Villain co-op was securing the outside door to the building. She then gave a nod to the security supervisor who sketched a short salute to her. With an exhausted sigh, Kim then turned about for the car—

And stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Signor Descont slowly advancing toward her from the open rear passenger door. His face was as stone, his lips tightly pressed together.

Getting over her surprise, Kim got the impression that Descont was a man on a mission, a mission that he did not like or want to do. She stood stock still as he walked up to her, his eyes not meeting hers.

"We will wait until we are alone if you please," he said in a tight, haunting voice.

Kim closed her eyes for just a moment, trying to get her thoughts organized. Had Descont come to apologize for his actions and mistreatment of her . . . and Ron? Had he come to forgive that . . . 'bill' that he had so gleefully placed on her for the destruction of the studio lighting? In any case, she doubted that he was here to do any of that voluntarily but was probably being forced to do so by the Centers Board, hence the reason why he wanted to deliver his apology in private—

That had to be the only explanation. Descont . . . or the other members of his board . . . or their superiors . . . whoever they might be, had at last come to the realization that she was 'The Good Guy'. She had saved so much for them, not only in the material property recovered, but their reputations and standing in their field—

Kim took satisfaction for this despite her exhausted/depleted state. Helping people was all that she wanted to do and she was so good at it. She hadn't been able to understand why Descont had acted the way he had (forget Getty and how he acted. He was now officially a 'villain' and therefore didn't count). The fact that maybe Descont had come somewhat around to the rest of the worlds point of view might actually make her somewhat forgive him for his treatment of her . . . and Ron—

Kim heard the remaining armored truck behind her start up and pull away. The villain co-op superintendent then walked past her and Descont, heading back up the way toward the front of the complex. In moments, other than Descont's driver, they were alone. Kim looked expectantly at the old man waiting—

"And you will be waiting forever—" Descont growled as if reading her mind. Kim raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out just what he meant by—

"When I was your age," Descont's growl became even more harsh, "a girl like you would be whipped, _whipped_ for acting such as you do. You are disgraceful, you are disgusting, you are—"

Kim's brain had suddenly/abruptly/finally jammed into reverse gear, making her realize that Descont wasn't here to apologize. "Why—?" was all she was able to get out before the old man rode right over her.

"Because I want you to know that when my colleagues and I are on that platform tomorrow, that nothing has changed about the way we feel and about how this entire farce was handled. The Mayor may laud you, the Counsel General may applaud you, the crowd may cheer you, but those of us still holding onto the old ways, the traditions of thousands of years of Italia, we will be cursing you under our plastic smiles."

Descont then drew himself up to his full height and snarled, "for you . . .directly by you . . . you will cause for all of those holding out for the return of sense, sanity and morals to be cast loose. I have been forced, ME, MYSELF (he thumped his chest loudly) forced out at last for my standing on principal, standing up for what is right! Those . . . fools of the board, backed by the liberals of the city government insisted that our insurance be charged for the studio lighting you destroyed 'out of appreciation' for the fact that those ridiculous child toys being recovered. Those fools argued that we would have had paid _millions_ to the owners of those childish fetishes. The idiots, they do not want to understand that we could have held close and refused to compensate those juveniles. That . . . THAT would have caused it to go into the courts where we could have delayed and argued and wrapped the whole lot in a bundle of red tape until all of those foolish asylum dwellers who owned those perversions died of old age! That is the way of tradition! That is how it should have been handled!

But you . . . you found them. So those idiots, those IDIOTS . . . decided not to hold the cost of the repair against you! They decided that taking it unto ourselves was more than a fair exchange. THEY DIDN'T UNDERSTAND THE POINT WHICH WAS THAT YOU . . . YOU KIM POSSIBLE, SHOULD BE PUNISHED FOR JUST BEING YOU . . . A SHINING EXAMPLE OF THE WORLD TO COME WHEN ALL MAY RISE TO THEIR ULTIMATE POTENTIAL!!"

Descont spit at Kim's feet. "A shining example of every reason why this whole damned world is going to hell! You are an aberration that I will _never_ accept! If you are indeed the future that God has willed for this planet than I _welcome_ death so that I may not see it. And send me to hell! If you are what God truly intends, than I do not wish to go to heaven."

Kim was frozen in place, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with tears of total stress and frustration growing in their corners. She didn't . . . she couldn't believe what was happening to her. No one had _ever_ talked to her or treated her in this way. Other than the bad guys . . . everyone had always at least appreciated her efforts, applauded what it was that she tired to do. How could someone look on her with such hate and loathing when all she wanted to do was _good_? How could anyone every think things like what Descont was near raging over.

"Everything about you and your world sickens me," Descont continued, shaking a fist at her as if threatening actual physical violence. "All of your kind who dress like whores and expect 'equality' when what you really want is 'control'. You cavort with women who create; _CREATE!_ perverted life in the face of God. That Hall woman should be burned at the stake! And then you, you and that . . . dwarf Grippe; you both allow his cousin, a man who has intentionally 'changed himself' into an animal, you allow him to continue to live instead of snuffing him out as the obscenity that he is. You—"

The more crunching of tires broke through the air, Descont turning around to see a police car pulling up behind Descont's. The old mans face, already beet red for his exertion now turned several shades darker as he forced himself to rein in his outburst. He cast a quick glance back at Kim, muttered, 'you disgust me," before storming back to his car even as the officers sent to collect her were getting out of theirs.

Kim, literally in a daze, had enough sense to move over toward the wall of the co-op, for the engine of Descont's car roared to life and the car leapt forward with a squeal of tires, Kim acknowledging that she would have been run right over if she had remained where she had been standing.

The senior officer slowly walked over to Kim, eyes at first on the car speeding off in the distance, then his gaze switching to Kim who was standing, her whole body shaking as if she was shivering—

"Just take me to the hotel please—" was all that she would say.

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Polizia was standing in his office looking out of his window at the city—

At his city, when he felt the eyes on him from behind.

"So," he said quietly, "do you wish to kill me where I stand?"

" . . . . . . why?" was all that Ron said.

Polizia snorted. "It is so simple. Because it was necessary."

" . . . . . . there had to be another way, Kim could have been hurt—"

"Your Kim was about to be killed, along with many of my men, an unknown number of innocent civilians . . . and incidentally myself . . . for I would have been the target sighted immediately after your lady went down . . . and that is something that I must live with every moment I breathe young man. Do you and your lady know something such as that. Do you live knowing that there is a price on your head that would graciously reward any young . . . you refer to them as . . . thugs, and allow them to start their reputation of climbing the criminal ladder."

" . . . . . . no . . . no, Kim and I . . . we don't have to live like that."

"But my own mortality aside Mr. Stoppable, what of all those innocents? Your own young lady admitted that she would have to return herself to their grasp in order to save all those people. Are you any different?"

" . . . . . . there . . . there had to be another way."

Polizia slowly shook her head. "There was none young man. And there are times in your life where you have no choice except . . . I believe that your expression is, play the cards that are tossed to you."

" . . . . . . there . . . there are always other ways . . . alternatives . . . if they don't exist, Kim makes them—"

"You will find me unmoved on that young sir. Nor will you be able to ever change my mind. So . . . "and with that, Polizia went through the process of lighting a cigarette . . . when he was finished, " . . . we must ask the question again, are you going to kill me?"

" . . . . . . no—"

Polizia just nodded. "Then . . . I would most graciously appreciate that wherever you obtained that sword from, that you put it back before one of my men sees you with it and takes . . . unfortunate action."

" . . . . . . you . . . really don't . . . care, do you?"

Polizia snorted and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Think what you will young man. For at this point, nothing I can say will be able to move you any more than you may be able to move me. I do what has to be done, nothing more . . . and never, never, anything less."

" . . . . . . I . . . feel sorry for you."

Polizia bowed his head in both appreciation and acknowledgement. He saw the refection of Ron Stoppable start to turn away from him via the reflection in the window before him. But before the young teen could leave, "you must prepare yourself Stoppable, for the day when you are confronted with that most horrible situation . . . the situation where you are granted the choice of saving either your young ladies life, or the lives of innocents. I may hope that the saints never place you in that setting, but if you continue your lifestyle with Signorina Possible, it is almost surely to happen." Polizia at last turned his head/shoulders about, his eyes hard as they met Ron's—

"Could you sacrifice her for innocents if required by God to do so?"

Ron's eyes were just as cold and hard . . . Polizia probably imagining the blue flicker in them to be a trick of the light—

I believe . . . that there is no such thing as a no-win situation Inspector. It's all what you make of it." A grim smile came to Ron's face. "Kim is the best in the world at beating a situation like that. And for her sake, I hope to someday be just as good."

Ron then gave Inspector Polizia a respectful nod. "And for your sake Inspector, stay safe . . . your city needs you." Ron then withdrew from the door, probably to rejoin Grippe where they were filling out their incident statement forms.

Polizia turned back to the window, face folded in thought. As he had said, he had no idea where young Stoppable had gotten the sword he had been holding lowered at his side, but what was really remarkable, was that it . . . it appeared that . . . when Stoppable turned away, his hand that had been holding it . . . was empty—

And Polizia was almost dead certain that he hadn't seen Stoppable put the thing down anywhere.

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Kim slowly became aware . . . because it hurt . . . but then . . . so much of her hurt at the moment both inside and . . . on the inside.

But she tired to make sense of what she was feeling . . . because she didn't understand just what it was that was happening to her.

The police had delivered her to the hotel. A hotel so fancy that a bellboy actually escorted her to the room . . . no . . .suite, even though the only luggage she had was her backpack. She didn't even have any money to tip him with.

And it was a suite, with two complete bedrooms with their own bath/showers. But at the moment . . . none of this registered on Kim's completely blown-out-of-the-water mind. The only thing that _did_ register . . .was that Ron was not yet there.

Kim had no memory of what happened after that. She had impressions that she had stripped, tended to her injuries, showered and gotten ready for bed. She wasn't hungry, didn't want to eat . . . she only wanted one thing.

She had curled up on the couch, intending on dozing until Ron came in.

She knew beyond any doubt that she was in no condition to try to talk to Ron coherently, rationally, logically, decisively—

She didn't care. There were things that she needed to say to him before any thought of sleep could enter her being.

But at the moment, something was happening to her that was very strange . . . but felt . . . oddly familiar. She stirred, tried to roll over and sit up. Even as she did that, she felt whatever was around her tighten up, try to bind her in. She started to struggle—

"KP—calm down. I'm just carrying you into your bedroom. You need to get some sleep."

It was . . . Ron. He was . . . carrying her like she was a little girl, carrying her to bed, taking care of her.

"Ron—" she managed.

"Ssshhhhhhh," he whispered and she felt the press of his lips against her forehead. Her struggling had stopped . . . but she still needed . . .

No . . . no she didn't need. Ron was carrying her, putting her to bed, taking care of her. It wasn't like it had been before when he had been mad at her, when he had left her dozing on the couch without checking on her or waking her.

Ron cared—

Kim could feel it in the very air about them.

That would be . . . enough for now. Talk could wait until morning when she could speak coherently . . . although considering everything that she had to say, everything she had to confess, everything that she had to beg forgiveness for, she was certain that it would not be rationally or logically or decisively—

Kim shifted in Ron's arms as he lowered her into the bed. She felt herself start to fade even as she felt him pull the covers over her. With her last shred of consciousness, she felt another peck from him on her forehead—

Her last whisper, below the threshold of hearing wasn't even complete as she sank into darkness, a thought/spoken words that she would not—

"Ron . . . I love you . . . . so . . . . . very . . . . . . very . . . . . . . muc—

A heartfelt thought—

That she would have absolutely no memory of having—

She would have no memory of what she had said.


	17. Decompressing

How long did one stare at the darkness of a ceiling somewhere above them until it became a video screen for the thoughts parading in front of the minds eye? How long did one allow those thoughts to keep one from peace of mind or badly needed sleep before one did something about it?

One did that for a long time . . . because this one in particular was pretty sure that he had stepped on . . . something . . . big time. This one . . . knew that he had to fess up to what he did . . . and he didn't want to . . . because he was afraid of the negative recognition and punishment that might be waiting.

Sure, there was the ancient homily about pulling the thorn out right away and getting it over with . . . but that didn't actually make it any easier. It only meant the potential for punishment came sooner.

With a sigh, Ron Stoppable rolled over again, thinking to himself that it was a sin that such an expensive hotel had such uncomfortable beds, refusing to acknowledge that it was his own anxiety and dread that was making the night so long and unrestful.

Ron rolled over again . . . and this time was rewarded with a 'bounce', a 'scurry' and a 'thud' on the pillow next to his head followed by a torrent of most annoyed and unhappy Naked Mole Rat chatter telling the blond haired boy in no uncertain terms that he was keeping Rufus awake as well and that was totally unacceptable. Ron wanted to pull his pillow over his head to escape the ire of his little buddy—

_No man . . . you have to face it sometime. And tomorrow . . . or is it today already . . . is going to be bad enough having to deal with Kim._

With a groan of several kinds of agony, Ron rolled over once again and extricated himself from the covers. He got out of the big bed and moved around to sit in the middle of its' 'foot'—

He assumed lotus position—

He tired to clear his mind . . . which was very difficult considering all the problems and issues currently running around in his head. But it was necessary. What he was trying to do had been the first lesson taught to him at Yamanuchi, taught even before he had started his other physical regiment, his weapons training or the special training that had eventually led him to possession of the Lotus Blade. Despite all the other demands on his time and body during that oh so short week, this exercise was the one most stressed on him, demanded of him, required from him—

Ron finally managed to sweep away all the garbage between his ears. He found his center, cleansed his being and—

In his mind, Ron opened a doorway at the back of it. It opened . . . into a hallway . . . that vanished into infinite darkness. Through that door, into and down that hall, he projected his 'voice'—

_Sensei._

He then waited. It was morning in Japan and Sensei would be busy with other matters. Ron disliked . . . 'calling' . . . because he knew just how busy his master truly was. Sensei normally 'called' him, usually in the early morning hours at his home in Middleton. It was through this link that Ron had continued his training in the martial arts associated with Ti-Shing-Pec-Whar. This was where he had been working harder than anything he had ever done before in his life. It was the most intense training and fighting on a virtual battlefield within his masters and his joined minds, training so deep within his core that his body . . . 'learned', 'sweated', 'strained' and 'hurt' to the same degree as if Ron was actually physically performing the exercises/mantras/moves. It was fortunate that he had a bathroom in his home accessible to him without his parents knowing for he would often 'awake' after a session sore muscled and streaming with sweat.

But this was the forum where Ron had learned the pressure points that he had used on Getty. This was where he had worked on the moves which had allowed him to at least hold his own for a period against the synthodrone named Eric. It was where he was continuing to be instructed in the philosophy and the mysticism of the art he had taken unto himself in order to stave off Montgomery Fisks grab for world conquering power.

It was where he had learned to effortlessly summon the Lotus Blade to his person without it crashing through a window or wall—

_Stoppable san_, came the voice into his head . . . immediately followed by a pause. Sensei's voice then came again with a different tone, a teacher aware of a problem with a favored student. _Something is troubling you . . . something within the Aura of Being._ That was a term that Sensei used to describe Ron's talents, powers and abilities, all invisible to the world at large but contained within his 'being' with the ability/potential to radiate from him like an 'aura'.

Ron's 'aura' was blue—

The Lotus blossom was a symbol in Japan of 'truth and purity'. There were many kinds of Lotus . . . but the most rare, most cherished, most powerful . . . was the 'blue'. The Blue Lotus held sway for these reasons across the largest continent in the historic world. From the orient to ancient Egypt, it was revered and respected (Howard Carter upon discovering the sarcophagus of Tutankhamun found it covered with the remains of Blue Lotus) for its legendary spirits.

Which was the trouble, for Ron was most definitely not feeling very pure or truthful or rare or cherished or powerful at the moment.

_Sensei . . . I . . . have made an error. And I wish to present myself for your judgment._ There was a sense of consideration coming from 'down the hall'.

_Open you mind to me _**yuutousei**_**,** so that I may see and consider._

Ron . . . the easiest way to say it was 'relaxed further', in such a way that Sensei was able to actually 'see' the memories that were troubling him. There was another pause—

_Are . . . _and there was only further consideration in Sensei's 'voice', not the anger or disappointment that Ron had feared, _you aware of your motivations for your actions?_

Lying was not an option with a ninja master inside of ones head but Ron would never ever consider such a thing regardless. However, he had been known to lie to himself on more than one occasion. And therein was part of his problem.

_I . . . I question the accuracy of my ability to know myself in this matter Sensei. That is one reason why I seek your guidance. I know that I was probably wrong—_

Sensei's tone immediately came back much 'firmer', _if you 'know' you were wrong, then you know the reason why. Let go of your fear of reprisal Stoppable san, this is a learning error, nothing more and nothing less. _

Ron managed a mental 'sigh' before giving in to the inevitable. _I . . . summoned the Blade . . . because I . . . wanted to intimidate Inspector Polizia . . . _

_And did you succeed?_ came back the gentle question, bearing an undertone as if the answer was already obvious to his master.

_It was like I was a little kid standing there with a water gun. I'm surprised that he didn't laugh at me._

_Self-pity does not become the Master of the Blade_ and now Sensei's tone was that of discipline. _I do not know this Inspector of the Italian Police, but I know his kind well and they are not men who would mock. They are as direct as the Sun and as dedicated as the tide. They are also immune to . . . intimidation. That is part of their being, the reason why they are._

There as a moments pause—

_So . . . what have you learned my student?_

There was a longer pause, then came Ron's thought . . . sounding a little sheepish. _Don't try to intimidate the tide._

Sensei did not reply to this . . . but Ron could feel his approval from 'down the hall'.

But . . . this did not ease Ron's . . . discomfort. He also could 'sense' that Sensei was waiting for him to ask . . . the real question.

At this point, there was nothing to do but to go for it.

_Sensei . . . I admit that I . . . screwed up by bringing the Blade to me._

_Did you Stoppable san?_

That caused Ron to start—

Allowing Sensei to fill in the blanks.

_I thought you were clear on this Stoppable san _(that came with a mental sigh)_. You and the Lotus Blade are the masters of each other. You invoke, possess, wield and change the Blade. The Blade in turn opens you to the Other World. It directs you, it leads you, it protects you. You have equal call on each other's skills and abilities._

Then Ron . . . heard the VERY big mental 'but'—

_However . . . you are correct in assuming the responsibility of when and why the Blade is called to you. And in this world . . . you are responsible for how it is used . . . or threatened to be used._

Ron again took in an apprehensive breath when he heard/realized the . . . resignation in Sensei's tone. _That is ultimately your task young Stoppable san. The Blade is yours to do with what you will. It is your path to find . . . the right path. That is one of your two interwoven destinies. I may teach you . . . I vow to advise you . . . but the reality of the decision is yours. If you do evil things with it . . . then I will oppose it . . . and if it should come to the final end . . . I will fight you if you truly become evil._ The force in that statement caused cold fear to grip his entire insides.

But Sensei's next statement allowed Ron to—_But I know in my heart that those events will not come to pass. I know you Stoppable san . . . as I know the Blade would not allow itself to be possessed by someone capable of such evil. You are right of being afraid of your motivations and reasons in this matter. That is another reason why you really should have no fear. For you know within yourself already what is good and what is bad. And I trust you never to make the same mistake twice._

_But Sensei_, Ron felt the last of his barriers fall, revealing to his master his most closely held fear, _what if something or someone did something to Kim, really really hurt her or . . . or . . . _

_Or caused her death_—came the gentle phrase—

_I . . . fear losing control if that happened Sensei . . . of doing great harm with the Blade—_

_In this_ and Sensei's tone was still very gentle, _lies a difference between our cultures. To my people, given various sets of circumstances, vengeance and honor may be the same task . . . and very probably part of the path you rightly tread. And I am afraid that I have to say . . . that again this is your own path to follow. What I am trying to tell you Stoppable san is that what you may have done with the Inspector in showing the Blade to him may not have been . . . wrong. It was what it was . . . a learning experience where you found the wisdom to never attempt to change the tide. The fact that you used the Blade showed that you had the wisdom to use your most potent weapon in your attempt to influence this man. So, the use of the Blade was neither right or wrong . . . it merely was. Now . . . if you had gone intending to murder the Inspector without warning or chance_—

_Sensei!!_ Ron sounded 'horrified'.

_Understand my words and the meanings behind them Stoppable san!_

At that moderate . . . rebuke, Ron took himself in hand . . . found his center again.

_I . . . must trust myself_ he said quietly._ For I know what is right and what is wrong._

_But you must also learn_ and Sensei's tone was level but there was an edge of steel backing it, _that you must learn to recognize, accept and deal with an event or situation where there is no right or wrong, merely a deed which must be done. The deed may seem evil . . .but the reason behind it . . . may not be . . . in fact . . . it may be for the greater good. Doctors may have to let some patients die so that others, less grievously injured . . . live, enforcers of the law may have to take a life in order to preserve another, soldiers on a battlefield engaged with an evil power . . . kill in order for justice to prevail. The Lotus Blade is the possession of a warrior . . . even if you do not recognize yourself as such yet. Hopefully the day will not come where you have to kill to save this planet young Stoppable san. But you must prepare yourself for that possibility. _

_And it is both my task and my honor to be you teacher in such. But ultimately—_

Ron felt . . . emotions that he didn't recognize . . . and others that he did. Pride, fear, others—but maybe . . . just maybe . . . he was beginning to understand.

_Thank you Sensei._

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Ron glanced uncomfortably at the closed bedroom door across the suite before giving the ornate clock on the counter another glance. It was more than a while after nine . . . the thing with the Mayor was at eleven. Han and Polizia were supposed to pick them all up at a quarter after ten which was less than three quarters of an hour away. Debate raged within him as to whither he should wake Kim. It was very unusual for her to sleep this late on a mission . . . which in itself was an indication of just how exhausted she had been . . . or . . . how upset she still was.

Ron's indecision was compounded by the fact that he wasn't sure of his own feelings right now. His love and devotion for and to his girlfriend was and would remain forever unchanged . . . although he had to wonder deep in himself as to wither his lying about who had taken down Getty was a sign that—

Ron sighed heavily, completely sure that he wasn't sure. At the time it had happened he felt that if Kim had found out that he, not Han, had taken down Getty after she had literally 'bounced' off of him during their initial meeting . . . an event where Getty hadn't even been trying to fight . . . Ron was worried that with her mood right now . . . he just wasn't sure how she would react to such a sitch. And after the fight the two of them had had on the roof of the Center while Rufus rescued Spot . . . he was afraid of how she would . . . her blowing up so violently on him when he had been trying so hard to be honest with her had really . . . startled him. It left him . . . for the first time in their long relationship . . . afraid to talk to her . . . really talk about something important.

Plus . . . some of what she had said . . . had hurt. And he knew . . . that some of what he said to her had to have hurt her—

Ron . . . didn't like that. But he wasn't sure about how to try and fix it. He'd thought long and hard about was Han had said during their conversation in Amy's lair. He believed that he understood what Han was getting at . . . he just wasn't sure how to actually make that happen between him and Kim . . . especially when she was sooo totally maxed out like she was at the moment.

Ron heard a chitter over his shoulder. He looked around to the table in the dining area. He had ordered breakfast for all of them, expecting Kim to be out long before this. Meanwhile, Rufus apparently had finished his and was looking questioningly at his person as he stood right next to Ron's portion. Ron thought he understood without even thinking and gave a tired wave or permission at the Mole Rat. "Not right now buddy, don't feel like it."

Rufus kind of sunk down. He didn't want Ron's portion, he wanted his person to eat. He could feel the tension in his person and he had hoped that by getting Ron to the table that some of that stress might have been lifted.

Then they both heard the door latch click. Ron's head snapped around, the tip of his nose probably passing the sound barrier—

The door to Kim's bedroom was open—there was a hush in the entire room, then . . . Kim slumped out, a fist rubbing one sleepy eye, her 'heart' tank top and lounge pants rumpled, her hair a bed-head disaster, not an once of makeup . . . . . . then the fist dropped and she looked at Ron for a moment, more than a little bleary eyed—

_She's . . . so beautiful_ was Ron's single premier thought stripping away all other worry and care. _I really want to spend the rest of my life waking up next to that, stripped of everything but what God gave her—_

Then it seemed that Kim realized that Ron was staring at her. Her eyes widened and focused even as she stood fully upright, one hand coming up in front of her mouth, "Ron . . . ?"

Ron was instantly half up on his feet, both hands out in front as if trying to wave away an adverse reaction, "it's okay KP, I wasn't staring which means that I wasn't staring at the way you look which means that I wasn't staring at how you look which means that I wasn't looking at you with a look that was staring—"

Ron's mouth snapped shut when the hand in front of Kim's mouth came out to him with a stopping palm. Kim's eyes had closed and she was breathing deeply as she stood still in that position—

Ron had simply stopped breathing.

Kim finally brought her hand down, stood for another moment still breathing—

Then she opened her eyes, looked at Ron who felt the impact from those huge emerald orbs, his mind instantly going back to that moment in the junior prom when those same eyes finally looked up into his right before they—

"It's okay Ron," Kim said softly even as her body relaxed slightly. "I know you wouldn't . . . " but she didn't continue the statement, as several . . . unpleasant thoughts . . . memories of an oh-so-horrible incident where someone _would_ . . . memories of a black closet and a camping toilet . . . hands holding her helpless . . . a gun in her mouth . . . seemed to go through her mind. She stood for the longest time . . . riding the moment out . . . not wanting to burden Ron with what had happened—

"No big," Kim was finally able to say in a more relaxed tone. She then stopped . . . and gave Ron a look . . . a bit unlike any look shed ever given him before. And there was . . . hesitation in her voice when she asked, " . . . are . . . you okay?"

Ron cocked his head at her, perplexed despite his relief that his girl seemed to be better (although after that 'moment' she had just had . . . he wondered if she was really—). "Well," he started carefully, trying not to burden her with all his worry and fear, "I think that I'm about as good as we usually are after a cluster like this. I'm certainly in better shape physically." He stopped for a moment before asking, "are you . . . okay?"

Kim answered him with kind of a head drooping embarrassed stance. "I—I", she actually stopped . . . had to take another deep breath . . . then . . . as if it was almost forced—"I feel bad Ron. I—I wasn't there when you needed me . . . when your friend—" Kim's head dropped all the way down until her chin touched her chest.

"That wasn't your fault," was Ron's quiet but earnest reply. "Han and I screwed up and got captured big time. From what little I heard from Polizia's men, you had your hands more than full just trying to get away from Getty's goons." In as instant, Ron had crossed to her and gently taken her shoulders (gently) into his hands. "I'm upset KP . . . but not at you—"

"But there's so much that you should be upset with me for Ron," Kim interrupted him. "I . . . I shouldn't have started that argument on the roof, it was wrong and it was uncalled for—"

"KP," Ron started again, his voice even softer.

"No Ron," was her just as soft reply. "I've—I've got to face that . . . I'm wrong about something. I've got to admit . . . I mean . . . I have to realize . . . I can't—its hard . . . " and Kim's voice just . . . stopped. After . . . what seemed like a long time, a time during which Ron was ready to turn blue from holding his breath—

Finally . . . Kim raised her eyes to him . . . allowing Ron just to see all the conflicting emotions in them. "You mean the world to me Ron . . . even if I can't say the words to express it. But . . . " and she had to bite at her cut/bruised bottom lip, the pain that habit caused accepted as a just punishment of her misdeeds even as the corners of her eyes turned misty. "But . . . " she finally started again, "I guess that . . . despite my own words . . . I'm not treating you right . . . not the way you deserve."

Kim's head dropped again . . . and when she spoke, it sounded as if she was saying the hardest thing she had ever said in her life. "I don't treat you right. Despite everything I've said and I've promised, despite all my talk about wanting you as my total, complete, hand-holding, arms around the waist, lip-locking, tonsil-hockey playing boyfriend . . . I . . . can't seem to move beyond that superficial description to what we thought we wanted." Her head came back up, but Ron could see that her eyes had turned inward for a moment as she realized, "or at least what I thought I wanted." Kim then shook her head as if she couldn't believe her own words even as she was saying them, then her eyes came back into focus on Ron's face. "I don't treat you like a boyfriend, a real boyfriend who I intend to make my life partner . . . I don't . . . I don't treat you like _any_ kind of a partner . . . as a partner of the team . . . or a partner in our relationship. I'm treating you like a sidekick Ron . . . " and at that moment, Kim's head dropped back down to her chest, "and—there's a part of me I guess . . . that . . . maybe . . . kinda likes it that way . . . even if I can't admit it . . . _really_ admit it to myself."

Ron felt his insides tighten into quadruple knots even as he choked up himself. His hands squeezed those now quivering shoulders as tightly as he dared, trying to manage, "KP—"

"You can't say anything to make it better Ron," Kim again rode over him despite the fact that she was almost whispering, "because we both know that it's true. And if we're going to find a way to deal with it . . . we have to be honest about it." Kim's hands came up, crossing her chest to lay lightly on Ron's where they held her shoulders. "I know I have to change the way I feel Ron . . . I just . . . don't know how." Again her gaze dropped . . . even as she admitted in a near whisper, "I don't even know where to start." A shuddering sigh went through her even as her eyes again focused. But she didn't raise them above his chest. "We've been doing this . . . how long now? And the way we always talked . . . making it sound like a joke when it really wasn't about you being the sidekick, the distraction and . . . " Kim pulled out of Ron's hand, half turning away from him back toward her door, saying in a completely miserable tone, "and . . . I _like_ being the top dog . . . it's who I am."

"Yes . . . you are."

Kim froze for a moment, not because Ron had said those words in his reply, but because of the understanding in his tone behind them. Ron reached out, taking Kim once again by the shoulders and turning her too him. "A couple of pointed points Ms. Blue Fox," he started with a tone that held both warmth (for her) and a definite coolness (for the sitch). "I'd like to say that aside from the reason we came on this mission in the first place (Kim blushed with shame at that statement for that part of it was ALL her bad), that part of what has happened could be my fault cause I'm so use to being the sidekick and distraction that I don't push myself forward or demand equal time as a partner—"

"But," Kim blurted in a 'quiet' wail, "I didn't do a thing to stop it! The insults, the harassment! I didn't do anything to stand up for you—"

"No you didn't," Ron's tone was a quiet scalpel . . . and it _hurt_ . . . because underneath it . . . was unrequited forgiveness—, "but it doesn't matter KP . . . because I know that while you were doing it . . . you weren't doing it on purpose . . . it was only happening because we're both so use to the way it always was—"

"Ron—NO" she shot back at him reaching out to grab and shake him by his ribs. "I knew _exactly_ what was happening. I kept saying to myself that I had to step in, I had to cut it off, I had to _stop_ it. I was _screaming_ at myself on the inside . . . and I still didn't do anything to stop it."

That seemed . . . to catch Ron off guard . . . she saw him start to work it through—

"I dissed you Ron," she said flatly, wanting to put all the cards on the table and get it all out in the open. "Plain and simple . . . and the reason why is that . . . "and she faltered because she now found that she couldn't say '_I don't respect you as a partner or as a boyfriend_.'

What she did say was, "you deserve more respect from me Ron."

Leaving Ron just . . . staring at her . . . for the longest time—

Finally, "What I was going to say," and Ron's tone bordered on . . . "was, and it also ties in with what I meant about your not doing it on purpose . . . was that _I_ think that it's not that you have a problem respecting me, because in many ways you do KP—"

"But that means that there are ways and times that I don't respect you Ron," was her miserable interjection. "and that is just plain wrong—"

Ron nodded firmly as if acknowledging this. But he went on firmly, "there are things that we have to explore KP. Yes . . . there are things that might have to change and it will be hard . . . for the both of us."

Kim looked at him, her eyes questioning. "There are things that have to change in the both of us," Ron continued. "Just like I've been having to change the way I think about and respect myself. Why do you think I've been trying so hard; the way I worked with you getting ready for finals, the way I was talking to Wade trying to figure out why certain things always went wrong. _I'm_ changing KP, hopefully into something better. And I have to wonder if . . . you're afraid of that."

Kim reared her head back as if someone waved a live cobra in front of her face. "Ron—" she started to protest—

"Isn't that why you did this whole mission KP. Your sense of 'control' was getting whacked out. Between all the plans for The Big Night and the fact that with all the help from your tutoring in the beginning, that at the end, I was coming along pretty well and you weren't having to lead me as you were before."

Ron's eyes were boring into hers, that 'serious look' that he took on when he was really being . . . serious . . . and expected to be taken that way.

"I was asking questions and filling in the blanks with you. I was taking the initiative with Wade, I was _trying to try_ to get it together . . . and I have to wonder if deep inside, you just might maybe resent that a little." A wave of affection now washed out of his brown eyes over, around and through her. "You are my Blue Fox. You are the top dog Alpha Female at Middleton High. You are the Girl Who Can Do Anything including saving to world. That is who and what you are and no . . . I don't want that to change. That is the you that I've loved as a friend and now I love you as my lady. I was there during the whole time you turned into what you are and I never had a problem with almost all of it. You're not perfect . . . I mean a perfect female in my view would love the GWA—"

"Ron!" she protested, starting to pull free, not thinking that it was at all funny—

"What I'm trying to say," Ron amended, snatching her back to him, actually pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her, "is that yes, there are some things that you're going to have to change, but the basic 'you' is not one of them. KP, I said I was changing and I hope . . . I really do hope that you've seen signs of it—" Ron waited, holding his breath, praying that the answer would be—

"Yes Ron . . . I have noticed." Kim said, acknowledging verbally for the first time what she had been thinking about . . . and now continued to think about.

She thought about it for some time—

Then a chittering came from the direction of the table. Both teens looked over startled to see Rufus pointing at the clock—

"Oh SNAP!" Kim cried as she pulled herself from Ron's arm and bolted back into her bedroom. "Ron," she called back over her shoulder as she went, "I saw breakfast on the table, can you throw something together for me that I can eat during the car ride over?—"

Ron felt . . . a little robbed . . . as he looked at his suddenly vacated arms. He managed to keep it out of his voice when he called, "not a problem KP—"

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Ron sat morosely, head propped on a fist of an arm that was propped on the small table before him, pencil just sort of tapping on the paper in front of him, mind . . . elsewhere despite his vow to buckle down and work—

A noise caught his attention and he cast a sidelong glance at his girlfriend, working in an almost identical pose across the small cabin of the medium sized private jet which Wade had arranged for them to piggyback on in order to get home to Middleton.

As was also Standard Operating Procedure, Wade had forwarded through all the last minute assignments and pop quizzes that Barkin had laid on the students of Middleton High even though finals were over and the school week was only three days of 'cleanup' which ended tomorrow on Wednesday. The two teens had no choice but to complete those assignments on the flight home, zapping them back via the Kimmunicator and Wade in order to be 'time stamped' so the work wouldn't 'be late'. It was another "Barkin Boner' but they had to get them done if they didn't want Barkin to 'fail' their junior year—

Ron wanted to do schoolwork about as much as he wanted to personally brush the coat of every monkey in the New York zoo. But as he watched Kim he realized . . .

That it looked like she . . . was struggling with the work.

Ron didn't know what to think—

And he hadn't since that morning in the hotel.

Kim . . . wasn't acting herself. Sure, she had smiled and thanked him for his putting together a mobile meal for her but in the ride over to the event, Kim sat quietly even after finishing what Ron had prepared for her. Ron had during the ride conversed quietly with Polizia and Grippe and had tried twice to get Kim involved in the conversation, but it was as if she was so deep in thought that she hadn't heard.

The event itself, Kim was . . . very low key, thanking everyone very quietly, not doing her usual 'it was no big' routine when the Mayor finished lauding her accomplishments, she quietly accepting the applause with a nod of her head and a half hearted smile. She didn't even accept the offer to make a speech of her own but what she did do . . . when taking the final applause, she stepped forward to the edge of the platform, grabbing Ron firmly by the elbow as she did so, pulling him right along with her, right next to her, almost literally locked to her hip—

Ron . . . did not like it. Being up front with Kim felt strange and 'just not right', especially with the wall that he still felt was between the two of them. He turned about at the same moment she did, glad it was over with . . . but then he almost bumped into her for she had stopped dead in her tracks. As a part of his stumble, Ron's head came past the front of hers and he was able to see her face—

The ANGER, the HURT, the REJECTION in her face that almost stopped his heart. But the inferno in her emerald eyes wasn't directed at him, it was locked ahead of her across the platform, Ron's eyes snapped in that direction.

Senior Descont stood with arms folded in rejection, his whole face a mask of suppressed hatred and disgust—

With an almost 'plastic' like smile on his face—

Ron put his hands about Kim's waist as if to steady the both of them from his stumble, a natural enough reaction that no one noticed why it had occurred. His touch unlocked Kim, her head turning to where Grippe was indicating the way off the platform, her body following that way, Ron trailing along behind her, his own face folded in thought.

The trip to the airport was completely quiet as far as his girlfriend was concerned. Ron had plenty of time between bits of conversation with Grippe to ponder just what might have happened in that moment on the platform and why his girl was so silent. Kim didn't even snap out of it when Spot, who had been curled in Grippe's lap, jumped across the space between them in the limo and started to enthusiastically rub her cheek against Ron.

"So Spot's not going to join his brood?" Ron asked.

"Apparently not," Han said with a satisfied chuckle. "Seems that the two of us have bonded . . . the old saving-each-others-life type of thing I suppose. He has made it quite clear to me that and his brood just what he intends to do and I for one am not about to tell a fearsome combination of two of the best predators in the business . . . no." Han's chuckle got louder. "After all dear boy, someone has to give you and Rufus a run for your money as the best 'odd pair' out there." Rufus, who had been on Ron's shoulder, gleefully reached out to be 'high-fived' by Spot—

"By the way . . . " Han then added, a 'most-serious-look' on his face as Spot jumped back over into his lap, "I truly trust that you will not be offended Ronald . . . but my new partner and I have had a . . . serious discussion about . . . his name."

Ron's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he gestured for Grippe to continue.

"I am assuming," Han said as he stroked the furry little beast (who shamelessly rubbed back), "'Spot' was, as you indicated, a descriptor. We decided that he needed a 'name' rather than a description."

Ron nodded in understanding. "And what name would that would be?" he asked.

Both Grippe and the owlcelot looked at the blond boy as if the choice should be a given. Ron could only wave his hands helplessly in reply.

"Why . . . " indicated Grippe with 'proper-nose-in-the-air-British-superiority, "it could only be the name of the Englishman known during the later part of his life world wide as 'The Greatest Man In The World"

"Oh . . . " Ron said sagely, nodding his head in understanding. He then cocked an eyebrow in question. "I thought that was some TV movie made about some pilot who flew somewhere. Our assistant principle showed it to us in history class."

As choreographed, both man and owlcelots eyes closed in pain and with great dignity, Han said, "I am speaking of Sir Winston Churchill young man, the British statesman who saved democracy in the twentieth century."

Ron's face folded in thought for a moment until he shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. All I can remember is that my great uncle smoked something called Winston cigarettes—"

With total and complete verbal/mental surrender, Grippe just said, "my companions new name shall be Churchill Ronald."

"Whatdya think KP," Ron asked, turning suddenly to the girl looking out of the window next to him, "do you think that Han and . . . Churchill . . . have any kind of a chance to equal the Ronster and his intripit Mole Rat?" (Ron intentionally mispronounced the term to get Kim to react).

"Sure Ron," Kim had replied vaguely with an absent wave of one hand—

Ron gave a worried look to Grippe/Churchill, both whom could only shrug.

Once they actually reached the airport and were at the jet, Kim did seem to 'surface' long enough to give Grippe a genuine farewell—

"I guess that this is a case," she said in a warm but subdued tone, "where we owe you a whole bunch of favors."

Grippe waved it off. "Nonsense. It was my complete pleasure. I dare say that being held captive with someone of your reputation will be fondly remembered and conversed about in some of the best clubs in London. Ones own reputation can not be helped but be advanced." He then gave a sly wink. "And considering who some of my peers are . . . that's saying something." And on that mysterious note, Han Grippe, with his new partner Churchill, bid them adieu.

Ron now brought himself back to the present with another look across the aisle. That had been hours ago. Other than handing him his 'assignments', Kim hadn't spoken a word to him since takeoff . . . and he could tell that her own head just wasn't in the game of working on those same assignments . . . which was most un-Kimlike.

With a sigh (which was probably louder than he intended) Ron returned to the work in front of him, trying really hard to actually concentrate on it—

Only to have his head suddenly snap up when Kim was abruptly up and out of her seat, moving in what Ron could only mentally describe as an 'angry stride' toward the back of the plane, out of sight behind the privacy curtain there.

Ron could only look after her, jaw hanging open in shock, wondering if it was his sigh or something else that set his girlfriend off.

With insides tied up in knots, Ron could only turn back to his work, knowing (or at least hoping) that Kim would either get over whatever it was, or come to him to talk—

After an hour . . . Ron's insides were tied up like steel pretzels . . . and he couldn't wait any longer. He tiptoed back to the curtain and peeked through the corner—

Kim was sitting on the lower of the two bunks there, elbows on knees, staring blankly out in front of her. On the bed beside her was a box of tissue from the bathroom and an entire pile of very used tissues. Then as he watched, her head dropped down almost to her chest, her shoulders started to quake; a tear was visible trailing down the cheek nearest to him.

Ron pulled himself back away from the curtain, as torn as he had ever been inside. Part of him immediately wanted to rush in, comfort her, find out what was the matter and see if there was any way he could help. But at the same time—

Thanks to Han Grippe, Ron now finally acknowledged the little . . . insecure core hidden deep inside of his Kim. He suspected all along that something like that might exist, but he had always refused to see it inside his Girl Who Could Do Anything. He also had to consider . . . that same little core . . . might be something that she didn't want anyone . . . even him . . . to see. And her privacy, had always been one of his most important priorities.

And in the end, that was what he had to respect.

So with his own head lowered, he returned to his seat, wondering if it was the right thing to do, hoping that he never found out if it wasn't.

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_Ron . . . how can I tell you that I'm sorry . . . when I'm not sure that I am? How can I tell you that I want you as a full partner in the team . . . when I'm not sure that I do? But how can I expect you to be my full partner in everything else . . . and that I really, really do want . . . if I can't accept you as my partner in everything._

_Ron . . . how can you love me when you know me . . . you know that I can be as selfish as Bonnie, as bossy as Monique, as stubborn as my father, as asinine as Barkin. You know that I've always been clueless when it comes to relationships and dating and love . . . that I'm . . . scared of it all, the emotions, the responsibility, the vulnerability—_

_And yet . . . I can't deny what I feel for you . . . and what I can feel, that you feel for me. And it . . . excites me . . . really excites me . . . and it makes me want to embrace it—_

_But if I did that . . . I would have to . . . and there's still so much that I don't . . . I understand . . . at least . . . I think I do . . . but I'm not sure . . . that I want too. How can I change . . . when I don't know what those changes will bring? If I change . . . how will I know that the future me . . . will be something I like? What if I let you become a full partner . . . and what happens when in time . . . somehow . . . you become as good as . . . me? Why does that scare me? Why is my control over everything I live and touch so important to me?_

_Is the reason why . . . because now I know what happens if that . . . control is taken away from me?_

_What those women did to me—I was less than a slab of meat to them. Even though I had to go so bad . . . the fact that they MADE me use that toilet—they took all my choice, my privacy, my actual body and one of its most intimate functions . . . they stripped me of all control and they MADE me do that in front of them all, where they could see . . . smell . . . hear it . . . . . . with a gun stuck in my mouth the whole time—_

_And I wanted them dead! I wanted to kill them right then and there—_

_And I've never had those kind of thoughts against anybody . . . not even Shego . . . when I kicked her into the Diablo control tower I wanted her hurt . . . at least I think I did—_

_Didn't I--?_

_Even though, now that I think about it . . . Shego was a part of the plot with Drakken involving Eric . . . Eric . . . an artificial creation that I let take my control away . . . something that I allowed to take control of my life._

_But . . . I didn't . . . love Eric . . . did I? Then why did . . . why did I let 'it' take control . . . but I freak at the very thought of losing all control of Ron even though I do l . . . lo . . . lov . . . him—_

_And Descont . . . and Getty . . . ?_

_The way they abused me? When all I've ever had from any other citizen or official is praise and thanks. How angry that makes me._

_How angry it makes me that I wasn't able to kick Getty's butt in the end cause Grippe got to him first—I wanted to kick him all over the city for the way he lorded all over me , called me names and act like I was a nothing. _

_And Descont I can't touch at all—so I was going to take my anger out on Getty in his place—_

_I cant do either . . . and that __**pisses**__ me!_

_I'm . . . angry at Grippe for taking out Getty—_

_So . . . I lost control over my revenge against Getty and I don't have any control over Descont_

_And that makes me soooooo angry._

_Why . . . . . . ?_

_Kimberly . . . why do you . . . . . . ?_

_The anger, the control issues . . . . . . _

_. . . . . . your fear of change . . . your fear of tomorrow . . . _

_Your fear of Ron and him changing . . . _

_I know the answer. Now if I only had the guts to admit it._

_It's really so simple._

_Because . . . I'm really not all that._

_Sure . . . I can save the world without breaking into a sweat. I can kick supervillian butt and evil sidekick booty and trash a planet-destroying doohickey in the time it takes most girls to put their makeup on._

_But . . . what about beyond that . . . what about in the real world?_

_Miss perfect . . . cheerleading captain . . . honor student . . . organizer and executer of just about every project and event coming out of Middleton High that matters to the food chain and the community at large—_

_Sometimes it's just so hard!_

_I work so hard. I have to work so HARD to make it all happen. I work so hard that it looks EASY!_

_But it's not!_

_My dad, my mom, my brothers, my uncle Slim, my cousins Larry and Joss, ALL of them . . . ALL OF THEM . . . their ALL certified geniuses; they create theory, technology, medical procedure, complex abstract fantasy universes, mechanical marvels . . . almost without any effort at all!_

_All I know is sixteen styles of Kung Fu and that took me eight years . . . and it was HARD!_

_So I cling to my world like a life preserver as the only thing that makes me special . . . that makes me somebody, from a family were all of the others are soo freakin special that no one else sees it. I . . . have to live up to that. And the only way I can do that is to make the most of the moment that I have now and control everything that surrounds me . . . so that everyone else can see that I'm someone just as special as everyone else in the Possible clan._

_And I have to have absolute control over that. I can't see tomorrow . . . I can't see past today because . . . I'm afraid of what I might see . . . I'm afraid of change . . . that things will get harder than they already are . . ._

_. . . and they seem so hard!_

_Ron . . . is that . . . another reason why you . . . what you really meant when you said . . . how you were trying too . . . you want to make yourself . . . worthy of being among this family of chronic overachievers?_

_Is it because Ron . . . that you don't think that I'll l . . . lo . . . lov . . . you if you don't make something of yourself?_

_And at the same time . . . am I . . . . . ._

_Be honest with yourself Kimberly Anne, that's why . . . you told Ron that basically, even if you didn't use the exact words . . . that you don't respect him. And even there . . . you're confused. Even when confronted with the truth . . . you can't accept . . . that Ron hit it right on the head. Is it . . . that you don't respect him . . . or is it . . . that you do . . . but only as his flaky/goofy old self . . . you just can't appreciate him in the fact that he really is trying to get better . . . and that he's got to be doing it for you . . . and if you cut him some slack he would . . . get better . . . maybe much better . . . and you . . . resent that . . . just like you resented him at Bueno Nacho and when he invented the Naco and when he excelled in Home Ec class—_

_Just like you resented it whenever any other girl showed an interest in him—_

_You Kimberly Anne are the worst kind of hypocrite—_

_And on top of that . . . isn't it just as true . . . that so much of it is simple . . . jelling . . . _

_And when he confronted you there on the roof of the center—_

_You constitutionally could NOT take any criticism from him . . . because he can't criticize you because you're sooooo much better—_

_And he loves me and I'm suppose to l . . . lo . . . lov . . . him—_

_Maybe . . . that's the problem? Maybe . . . face it, Ron saved you from yourself when you were drowning in the Food Chain and you found out that you had been reeled in hook-line-sinker by an artificial creation of your enemy named Eric. Ron LOVED you . . . and has for . . . I guess a lot longer than either of us realized. But you . . . you're still thinking of him like . . . a loved friend aren't you. You haven't truly made that transition on a mental level . . . however much fun you've been having with the new physical relationship . . . and the reason for THAT . . . is that you're too comfortable with the Ron and the relationship that you two have had since pre-K—_

_Ron . . . I do diss you. and I do it without even thinking. Like when I was thinking a moment ago about Getty and Descont, about everything they did to me and how I want to kick their butts for it . . . and I didn't have a single thought . . . about everything . . . they did to you . . . which was a hundred times worse . . . _

_Ron . . . I MUST be in l . . . lo . . . lov . . . with you considering everything I feel and want and need and desire and cherish and hope and—_

_But . . . I don't respect you . . . your needs and your wishes—_

_It's all about me . . . and today . . . isn't it Kimberly._

_If I really, really lov . . . d Ron . . . I would change—_

_I don't want to . . . change—_

_I'm . . . afraid of it._

_You're . . . truly afraid of change Kimberly . . . . . . _

_But . . . if you're going to l . . . lo . . . Ron . . . you're going to have to—_

_So what do you do about it?_

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". . . . . . Ron . . . . . . "

Ron jerked his head up, only then realizing that he had dozed, his chin dropping to his chest. His head snapped to the side—

And stopped, but he could not stop his eyes from going wide with surprise.

For Kim was huddled on the floor across the aisle from him, back against her seat, knees drawn up under her chin . . . her emerald eyes looking at him like a little lost puppy—

But . . . it wasn't the puppy-dog-pout . . . it . . . really was the look of a little lost . . . girl. He came half out of his seat— "KP—?"

"I want to say I'm sorry Ron—"

Kim's tone spoke of a need for Ron to keep his distance. So he went down onto his knees in the space in front of his seat. He was on her level which helped the two make the needed connection . . . but he was giving her the room she needed to breathe.

"I really am sorry for everything I've done."

And Ron could tell, more so than at any time before that she really meant it. But something else was there, something that he suddenly realized had been missing without his noticing it.

"I'm trying to be completely honest here Ron . . . honest with both you . . . and with myself. Because I haven't been very honest with myself since this whole thing started."

Ron could only nod to her in acknowledgement, for he was dealing with his own sudden shock over the fact that Kim was . . . having to _force_ herself into being . . . honest with him . . . _force_ herself to be honest—

"I can't make up any part of what's happened Ron. and . . . (her eyes dropped in shame) being honest, I have to admit . . . that I don't know what to do about the way I've been acting. I'm . . . kind of at a loss as to how to change the way I think and act in regards to several things."

A heavy weight lifted off of Ron Stoppable's shoulders. He had been so afraid, knowing his Kim's tendency to take direct, forceful action, that she would try force a change on herself as he had tried so many times in the past. Knowing that she was thinking instead of reacting . . . and thinking honestly that she _didn't_ know, didn't have an immediate answer, was such a relief—

"And . . . I don't know what to do . . . about not knowing what to do," Kim continued in a miserable tone. "I know I have to do something . . . you deserve so much more than I'm giving—"

"It's okay KP," was his soft, certain reply. He then nodded an acknowledgement of her confusion and pain before telling her softly, "things like that . . . don't happen overnight." Ron opened his hands/arms to her in a gesture of acceptance of her problems/needs—

And in a blink that even startled him, Kim was across the floor, arms wrapped tightly around him, crushing the side of her face to his chest. Ron's breath was taken away . . . and not just by the strangle hold his girl had about his torso. But without thinking, he was caressing her hair with one hand as the other held the other side of her battered face gently to him, saying as he did so, "it's all about time KP. You need time. Time to think, time to talk, to me, to your 'rents, and time happens to be a Ron Stoppable specialty. I can give you all the time in the world."

Kim face screwed up even harder, accented by a trembling lower lip and suddenly dampness leaking from those closed emerald eyes. ""Why . . . " and her voice was husky/horse, "why do you understand me so well Ron Stoppable?"

Even though she could see it from her position against his chest, he gave her a very small, but very Ronish smile. "Because I've taken the time to do so."

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A/N: Having a chance to get this one posted early as I had today (Friday) off as payback for having to work the Columbus Day holiday. This was a good thing as this chapter was expanded almost a third from its original 'final' form that was completed months ago. The reason behind that I can attribute directly to the reviews so many of you kindly send. Be they short or long, they often 'click' something, often times something not even intended by the review author, but something residing in the wants/needs of the entire arc of this AU as stored away in the dusty corners of my mind. I can not stress enough what an enormous help reviews have been and that they have undoubtedly made this story much better. I will admit that I have sometimes been a little 'abrupt' in regards to people 'suggesting' a specific change or scene and for that I apologize. But for some reason, just the free flow comments made by many reviews have often been much more helpful then a 'specific' item. I believe that it is because I see where I'm hitting or missing about the story/points/feelings I'm trying to get across. All in all, many of you have been as big a help in making this story as good as I feel it is.

And sorry to say, not much left, one chapter and the Closing Kicker. Hope that it is enjoyed by all.

I Will Remain

As Always

Your Most Humble And Devoted Servant

The Wise Duck


	18. A Little Bit of Payback

As a man of refinement, Falsetto Jones was use to his pleasures . . . even when hiding out from authorities seeking his arrest.

Oh, there wasn't an "APB' (as the Americans so quaintly put it) out for him, but his sources (highly paid of course) within the Italian criminal system had been quite sure that if he attempted to cross the boarders into France, Switzerland or Austria (let alone the former Czech republics) that a pair of manacles would be waiting for him. The same thing applied to the airports where the Italians had extensive surveillance and control. He had been told that even private and charter aircraft were having difficulty escaping inspection.

But International Jewel Thieves were a patient lot. It came with their territory. As long as Jones had his creature comforts—

Which at the moment was the snifter of fine Brandy he was warming with his hands at he looked out of his window down onto the city of Turin. The penthouse was one of many 'safe' houses he maintained in any given country. And unlike those brokered by Jack Hench or the other more minor villain concierge services, this one was totally off of the radar, tucked away in a minor business holding of Jones's second cousin, truly impervious to discovery even by Possible's little computer nerd.

So Jones felt quite safe . . . and was pretty much over his annoyance with that fool Getty, a process accelerated by the news that the egotistical tub of lard was currently having to spend his night in a jail hospital ward—the entire ward as no regular hospital bed could hold his bulk. Jones was hopeful that with both Getty's fall and the fact that Hall and her . . . unique creations were in custody (Jones was truly sorry in Hall's case, he had rather liked the woman . . . in a cultured superior toward a demented child sort of way) would lessen the authorities need to find him.

His ire was of course tempered by the fact that the whole little scheme had allowed him to be removed from the clutches of the penal authorities who had been . . . detaining him. And the adventure was not without interesting moments and lessons that would be most valuable at a later time. Jones believed that he learned from his mistakes and due to that, his impressions on Kim Possible and her male friend, might require some careful . . . reexaminations—

A sudden movement caught his eye and Jones blinked, thoroughly startled. He then _looked_—

And saw nothing.

He pondered this a moment. He . . . thought . . . that there had been something . . . looking at him from the bottom corner of the window. But Jones was now looking there . . . seeing nothing of course. And what could have been there? In the classic Italian style, there was a narrow ledge running all the way around the façade of the structure . . . it would have taken a cat to navigate such a path . . . and it would have to be a cat with absolutely no fear of heights considering that Jones's penthouse _was_ the top floor.

Jones's eyes then narrowed. There was of course sophisticated surveillance devices that could reach his windows . . . but most of those were free flying. His sudden impression had been of a glowing pair of eyes staring up at him from that same small ledge.

Jones took a hefty dose of his brandy, his mood destroyed. He toyed with checking with his bodyguard detail, dithering over that thought for more than a minute. Jones then turned and headed toward the set of fine wooden double doors that led from the study he was in into the main hallway. He had survived for so long with his criminal activities hidden (prior to Kim Possible that is) by leaving nothing about his security to chance. He had violated that tenet by having his dog shows at his estate where the little b . . . the young lady had an opportunity to use her advanced devices to breach his security. As had been said, Jones like to believe that he learned from his mistakes.

Jones reached the doors and started to pull it open—

Only to find himself staring into the bottomless black hole of the muzzle of a _very_ big revolver.

"I say old boy—fancy meeting you here."

It was a grinning Han Grippe.

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It was very early morning when they overflew Middleton. The cold upper Rocky Mountain air revitalized and cleared Kim's mind in the first few seconds after she jumped out of the jet. The thrill, the tearing rush of the free fall air ripping past her ears (behind the usual tearing scream of her boyfriend coming down directly behind her) renewed her in ways she probably never could describe—

Just as the fact that . . . she had managed to . . . at least settle her nerves and fears in the arms of/with the soft words from her Best Friend of a Boyfriend . . . it seemed that for the first time in a week, her mind was clear.

Kim could now . . . at least recognize the problem . . . acknowledge that she had one . . . SHE had the problem, it was hers and hers alone. She still had no firm idea how to deal with it . . . but she felt better about herself . . . which in a way, made the guilt from the past several days all the more worse.

But the fact that Ron . . . had accepted her apology and forgiven her had gone a long way toward her dealing with that as well. He had even gone so far as to give her a 'stern' warning about never repeating what she had done . . . everything from the whole sitch to the illegal use of the Puppy Dog Pout to her 'hiding' by not coming home either of the times they'd had the opportunity.

Kim had found that . . . difficult. She realized that despite herself, despite her admissions to herself and the feeling that she really had been and was _wrong_ . . . the fact remained that there was still a little trigger inside her that had gotten 'white hot' when Ron was having his say, Kim firmly stepped on it for she now knew that even if she was still having problems with Ron being a full partner in the team, she had no right to deny him his say as far as they're relationship however much she might dislike it.

And she shamefully realized that she did have a problem with Ron having a say—

But . . . Kim had fought it and kept her cool . . . only to be rewarded by something she never thought she would see/hear. Ron had purposed that he and her . . . start training . . . really training. Their zigs and zags, their ins and outs, their distractions and attacks . . . their coordination both together . . . and apart. "We trust each other with our lives KP," he had said with a surprising firm voice. "There's no question about that. But you if you need to work on your trust of me when we're apart with a separate mission to accomplish . . . I want to make sure that I can live up to that trust . . . and earn that respect."

She had dipped her head and blushed when Ron said that. She had had no idea that her feelings toward Ron's clumsiness and occasional bad luck had be so obv—

"The thing at the villain co-op was a perfect example," Ron continued suddenly. "It was like totally my fault that I didn't understand Wade about the whole building being alarmed instead of just Amy's unit. That's something _I_ need to learn . . . so you can trust me that it wont happen again—"

If Ron could admit his own faults that candidly . . . could she do any less?

She . . . just was so unsure of how to do it.

Kim's awareness snapped back to the present as her altitude alarm sounded. A quick glance back over her shoulder to make sure that Ron was clear of her chute envelope, she popped her paraglider and set her sights on the front lawn of the Possible residence. Sensors on the roof of the house had detected them and lit up the entire front with flood lamps, LED's sewn into the front lawn coming alive with a landing circle.

In moments she was down, immediately pulling her gear to the side to make room for Ron—

He came swooping in, a teeth grinding 'eeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkkkkk' emitting as he made his final—

But he actually made it down standing . . . Ron looked at her, giving her an ear-to-ear grin and a thumbs up . . . only to trip in one of his own canopy lines as he bent to gather up his chute.

One minute after Ron's touchdown, the lights snapped off in order to minimize the effect on their neighbors. By that time, both teens had their canopies gathered and were in the process of unbuckling their gear. But Kim suddenly realized that it wasn't completely dark . . . and her head came around . . . to see the front porch light on . . . and a robed figure standing there. Ron caught her glance, took one of his own—

Ron, without a word, silently gathered Kim's gear with his to be put into the stowage bin around the side of the garage. A lingering touch from her on his burdened arm and the glint of each others eyes in the dark was all they had before he walked away—

Kim walked slowly over to the silhouetted figure of her mom who was standing with arms crossed. For a long moment Kim stood silently, unable to see the all-knowing sapphire eyes that she knew were stripping her to the bone—

The bandages on her hands/forearms—

The lacerated fat lip and bruised cheek—

The slight limp from the injured knees—

The way she couldn't hold her head up quite completely straight—

Finally . . . Kim heard her mom snort—followed by, "I thought you said . . . no damage?"

"Well," was Kim's sheepish reply, "nothing permanent anyway."

That just got her another motherly snort . . . and the silent promise of a good talking too somewhere down the road . . . which would probably not really be too far when her mom discovered the maybe concussion—

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Kim felt what she almost could describe as a panic attack (not that _she_ ever panicked so it had to be something else whatever it was). She had been so wrapped in trying to get out of 'The Big Night', followed by the fiasco of the mission itself, she had forgotten about the books in her locker which were suppose to have been turned in the previous day—after she had written a student evaluation of them for the respective teachers. Then there was the fact that she had to get her locker cleaned out in order to have Wade (via some of the geeks from the Campus Computer Program) pick up her unit for service. On top of this was making sure that Barkin had gotten all of his last minute . . . _stuff_ . . . on top of her learning no-sooner-that-stepping-into-the-building-to-encounter-a-veritable-hoard-of her fellow committee members and special project buddies that (this is just a sample of what she was hit with) the flyers for the end-of-school-carwash-for-the-senior-citizens-charity had been all screwed up as had both the reservation head count _and_ the menu for Friday nights end-of-the-year PTA dinner (the restaurant had said the fish she had selected was suddenly 'unavailable' and had substituted squid [GROSS] because it was cheaper for them while still charging the same price) as well as the photographs wanted by the Middleton Herald—and on and on and on—

Normally Kim could take challenges like this in stride (having always prided herself as being the go-to girl for _everything_), but by the time her mother had gotten done with her (with the dreaded/expected dressing down for not properly considering her head injury—Kim had an 'appointment' at her mom's office directly after school), she had gotten less that three hours sleep, awaking to know that sometime . . . at some point during the day . . . the even more dreaded inevitable was going to happen—

"Kim Possible . . . "

Kim gritted teeth even as her eyes closed in absolute stark-raving dread . . . she didn't want to look, she didn't want to turn . . . she . . . _SHE_ . . . wanted to turn and bolt—

What she did was smoothly turn and start to walk away with a gay wave of her hand—

"Hi Monique, sorry, got a whole buncha drama going right now—"

Only to have her knees 'bump' into something, causing Kim's eyes to flash open . . . to see a stern faced, arms folded Felix blocking her path—

At that moment . . . she felt like Rufus must have felt when confronted in The Nest by the entire brood of owlcelots . . . with the ax of doom falling on her in the form of a shapely black skinned arm that came down on one of her shoulders, locking its grip into her very being, accompanied a moment later by a just too-natural-to-be-natural voice saying quietly into her ear—

"Not a chance girlfriend . . . we'z got some splanin to do—"

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Not too far away in a multimillion dollar penthouse, a figure sat brooding in a chair, long into its fifth or sixth very strong drink.

The very skinny young woman with the very long/straight straw blond hair was not happy in the least . . . and she did not take to being unhappy very well.

There was still every indication that she was going to be cut off . . . especially now that 'daddy' had seen the bill from the 'business venture' that had just been a total freakin bust in Italy—

It was like . . . getting to be desperation time. She just couldn't cope with even the concept of being among the regular trash . . . like someone who had to work for a living and wasn't on the front page of every gossip paper every week—

Booooorrrrring to death!

No, that failed venture in Milan had taught her a lesson. No more working with others. She would do what had to be done on her own—

After all . . . when left to her own devices . . . she had _always_ gotten what she wanted.

And had fun doing it.

Camille Leon grabbed her newest, fancy phone/organizer/whatever doohickey and looked at her schedule for the next several months.

Yes, there were several opportunities down the road where she could use her . . . unique ability just as the farce in Milan had proved she could (even if morphing into something as pitiable as a peon secretary and a serf of an assistant was almost as bad as death itself because they were just so . . . so . . . so . . . middle class). And if she worked on those she personally knew or had contact with . . . she could carry it even further.

And it would be sooo much fun to screw with those others as well . . .

For none of them were anywhere near as rich or good looking or famous or just totally bitchin as she was—

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It was an exhausted, chastised, humbled Kim Possible that slumped out of the passenger seat of her mom's van, wanting only to have a bite to eat, a phone conversation with her boyfriend and then bed. She trudged toward the front door, her brain repeatedly replaying things that she's rather forget in the tone of her mom, of Monique, of Felix . . . of Barkin's (she had belatedly [well, the truth be known, Wade had called her] remembered the computer pickup from her locker causing her mom to have to drive her _back_ to school and Barkin to be _summoned_ from his office in order to unlock _her _hall for the geeks) voices—

To put it mildly, it had not been a good day . . . by any stretch of the imagination.

Add to it the fact that due to all the crises at school, she had seen little of Ron during the day. She had expected him to join her after school for the trip to her mom's office but he had texted her that something had come up, that he had to go directly home and return a phone call from Han Grippe. Kim assumed that whatever it was, that it wasn't serious because Grippe had not gone through Wade as she assumed he would in an emergency. She figured that Grippe must have had some kind of question about Churchill. She was sure that Ron would tell her when they talked after she ate.

Kim hit the front door and headed in through the front foyer, dropping her backpack listlessly next to the stairs intending to take it up later . . . not wanting to deal with the pair of identical twin accusing eyes that were burning down on her from the upstairs balcony. Kim went down the hall toward the kitchen, stepping in through the door—

Stopping and blinking in momentary surprise—

Surprise that in fact . . . lasted more than just a moment, for the other pair of eyes staring back at her had, once they had recognized her, turned what could only be called 'parental cool'.

"Ahhhh," she managed, "hi dad, glad you're home . . . how was the trip?"

Her dad was sitting in the breakfast nook with several documents scattered out before him. As he spoke, he picked up one and waved it in the air to accent his words.

"I want to talk to you about something young lady. I printed out all of our communications billings and records in order to complete my trip expense account. I see . . . a remarkable series of calls to your mother . . . using your Kimmunicator . . . from Italy . . . over a period of _six days_ . . . " Her dad's eyes got just a little bit narrower. "Would you mind explaining the circumstances involved?"

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"So you say . . . that Kimberly has been . . . 'grounded' by her father?"

Ron sighed and nodded at the image of Han Grippe on his computer monitor (and Churchill peaking up from the lower corner). The image of Grippe folded in thought for a long moment. He had called Ron to tell of Falsetto Jones being taken into custody after which Ron brought the Englishman up to speed regarding his girlfriend. Ron watched in wonder as he could see the wheels going behind Grippes all-knowing eyes—

Ron then sucked in a breath as a sly look came into those same eyes. Grippe looked back out of the monitor at Ron—

"Let me contact Kimberly's father. I think I can convince him that I just might be able to offer what could very well be . . . an appropriate alternative—"

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One week later—

"THIS IS SOOOOOO AAAAWWWWEEEESSSSOOOOMMMMEEEE!!!!!!!"

"Down boy," Monique managed with a bubbling laugh of her own as she pressed down on her younger brothers shoulders, trying to keep him from jumping right up into orbit. Ron had looked back over his shoulder at this display, a huge smile on his face. Kim's two younger brothers were also bouncing off of the walls, but between Felix, Wade and his Father and Ron's own dad, they were pretty much under control.

Ron looked back around and down at the small figure of Han Grippe walking next to him down the concrete underground passageway, Churchill now a permanent fixture around his shoulders/neck. "Again Han, I don't know how to thank you. This really is spankin, and I'd hate to think what it cost you—"

"Tut tut Ronald," Grippe waved him off with a huge grin. "I am after all a member of Her Majesties Peerage with more money than I will ever be able to spend. That is why I do the work that I do, I am able to be involved in enterprises that . . . interest me or are . . . otherwise interesting."

Ron still shook his head, "you said that before but just the idea of bringing all of us to London, putting us up in that swanky hotel, arranging those tours, even that one that my mom, Wade's mom and Kim and Monique's parents are all on right now while we are all here—"

Grippe laughed. "Well, I didn't think that your mother, Mrs. Load and the elder Possible's and Ravens are really interested in this little event." He gave a laughing shrug. "I have to admit that it is really not my cup of tea either, but," and he cocked a laughing eye up at the smug faced owlcelot's head next to his own, "Churchill seems to have taken a liking to it once I introduced him to it the other night. It seems . . . ah, here we are."

Ron looked forward. They were approaching a pair of plain metal double doors guarded by some huge muscle-shirted 'bouncer' types. Standing in front of this door was a young man dressed as an 'usher' and a pleasantly dressed young couple . . . whom Grippe greeted in Italian before turning to Ron. "This is Signor Studantae and his wife." Ron nodded and reached out to shake their hands even as he said to Grippe, "so it was his scooter that Kim ah . . . borrowed in order to get away from Getty's goons."

Grippe nodded. "Yes, and after careful consideration, I thought that, since I found out, entirely by accident by the way, that this young couple and you and your friends have a . . . similar . . . rather rabid opinion of a certain . . . I guess that it could be called a sports activity, that this was the best all around answer to everyone's . . . needs."

Ron winced at Grippes choice of words. If what he understood what Grippe had told him about this young couple . . . and with Grippes answer to MrDrP's 'grounding' of his Best Friend/Girlfriend which the elder Possible had readily agreed to as both an approproate punishment for his daughter as well as an acceptable trade off to Kim's brothers, boyfriend and her other close friends over the loss of The Big Night—

Ron loved Kim with all his heart . . . so he _had_ to feel sorry for her—

At that moment, the two bouncers turned and started to open the twin doors. Even as the others started forward, Ron felt Grippe's hand grab him by the collar, dragging him down so that the Englishman could whisper into his ear—

"Ron, I want to give you my word of honor that they do not know that you were coming, that you are here. This will be entirely spontaneous—"

The doors came open revealing a rancorous scene of yelling and things being thrown in front of a host of lights and cameras. A thick crowd of people milling around the tables/food/beverages under a huge banner that proclaimed, 'GWA WORLD WIDE MAYHEM TOUR-ROCKING LONDON TO ITS ROOTS!'

As if entering Valhalla, the group was ushered in . . . the movement catching the eye of a monstrous man in the center of the riot who immediately rocked his own head back in recognition before turning and bellowing—

"HEY KING. LOOK OVER THERE! ITS OUR MAIN MAN-RON STOPPABLE!"

With that, Steel Toe, followed closely by King Pain broke away from the mob, charged the group in front of the now closed doors and together, grabbed Ron, throwing him up into the air before the amazed eyes of his father and friends (the Italian couple looking on with raptured awe) all the while, both of them calling to the blond haired boy, "what's happin my man, still saving the world—"

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A/N: Almost done. All that is left is the 'Closing Kicker' when we get to see just how Kim is getting her comeuppance. Hope you all enjoy it.

The Wise Duck


	19. Closing Kicker

Much of the success of a certain red-haired female world saver was based on her desire/need/compulsion to be helpful to any and all who might need help. This of course had started when she had first put her website on line years previously. While her motto, 'I can do anything' might sound boastful, over the time since she had become part of the World Wide Web, she had proved both this ability and that mission time and time again. And time and time again, her success in future endeavors were more often then not, augmented, assisted, expedited by the 'favors' she routinely 'called in'.

It seemed that Signor Studantae, the owner of the scooter which had allowed her to escape from the clutches of Getty's goon squad, only to be 'totaled' against the side of a truck—

The teen hero had said it when she was forced by extreme need and emergency circumstance to appropriate said scooter—

"Sorry!! Just Barrowing!!! Real Emergency!!!! Please and Thank You!!!!! I really _REALLY _owe you a favor for this!!!!!!"

The Lord The Honorable Hannibal Grippe, the Marquis of Sandsimian had reached an 'agreement' with Doctor James T. Possible regarding the 'grounding' of Doctor Possible's eldest child, an agreement which both men found to be an 'appropriate alternative', one that would in fact, be perfectly suited to the talents, experience and abilities of that same said daughter, a talent which was in fact, the real talent which that same young lady had really truly intended to advertise when she had put her 'braggy' website up—

A situation which would be in fact eminently fair for it would allow the female scion of the Doctors Possible in question to accomplish the proverbial 'two birds with one stone' scenario.

As per the agreement between the two elders, the Marquis would be entertaining his guests, The Possibles, The Stoppables, The Ravens, The Loads, young Felix Renton, and of course Signor and Signora Studantae to a full weeks (the length of the 'grounding' specified by Doctor Possible) of tours, dinners, sightseeing, concerts (and other events).

Needless to say, the young married couple the Studantaes, they could not even possibly start to express just how much the 'vacation' meant to and for them—

The reason?

Signor Studantae was in fact . . . twenty-five years of age. But he _was_ a college student as well, his studies going very, very slowly—

Having three jobs to support his family drained much of his available time—

Signora Studantae could at the best of times also be described as . . . . . . drained—

Kim Possible had decided that Signor Studantae used both the schooling and the three jobs for an entirely different reason—

She was convinced that he had to be away from home all the time . . . for Kim had decided that no sane human being could possible survive in a small apartment with—

And she didn't know how is God's name Mrs. Studantae could have possibly lived through such a daily ordeal—

So . . . . . . in a spacious suite at a hotel not too far from the area where the WGA was 'Rockin Down London'—

A redheaded world saving heroine was perhaps facing her greatest challenge—

The Studantae 'brood' (with apologies to the owlcelots)

A pair of four-year-old identical twins who were CONSTANTLY fighting—

A crying three-year old who had an ear infection—

A cranky two-year old who was potty training—

A screaming one-year old who was still teething—

And a newborn with colic—

Kim's clothing was a mess of spit-up and snot and food and finger paint—

She swore she was going deaf from the screaming—

She _knew_ that she was shortly going to be bald from all of her hair being pulled out—

With Wade elsewhere, she was having to rely on the Kimmunicator for translation . . . and one of the four-year olds had run off and hidden it (Kim had heard the toilet flush at just about the same time)—

But . . . . . . . . . . . .

"IT ISN'T WRESTLING!!!!!!!" she shouted joyously to the world!

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A/N Once again I wish to humbly and sincerely thank everyone who read this work with a very special thanks to those who reviewed, especially to those who consistently reviewed chapter after chapter, CajunBear73, screaming phoenix, Sentinel 103, daccu65, Danny-171984, Spectre666, Comet Moon and last but certainly not least, whitem. All have given me inspiration and the occasional idea, some of which might just pop up in future stories.

Unfortunately, future stories will probably take a while. The next story deals with the events which occurred during What She Can't Say regarding Kim's 17th birthday. It will probably not be posted until it is 'done' for it will be my first 'M' rated story, the rating due to adult concepts and themes while I explore my concept of the origins and history of the Seniors' and why Junior wants to be a world famous pop icon. As such I want to be very careful in writing this so that I can get it right.

I also want and need to continue to catch up with other people's writings. There are a couple of stories which people asked me to read/review for them MONTHS ago and I shamefully have to admit that they fell through the cracks. I need to correct that oversight.

Finally, I have a real need, to return to my own original sci-fi writings, which have been barely touched since I started WSCS. I promised a crossover between my universe and the Firefly/Serenity universe to my son over three years ago. I also want to go back though my original stories and rewrite them using the knowledge and experience that I have gained from my writing and all my readers feedback here as FF. If when I'm done, if I'm happy with what I've done . . . and brave enough, I just might post them at Fiction Press or DeviantArt, but we'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

So . . . until that time—

I Shall Remain

As Always

Your Most Humble and Devoted Servant

The Wise Duck


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